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OF 



SIGNOR A. A. NOBILE. 



NOVELS 



^ TRANSLATIONS 
LECTURES 



SAN FRANCISCO : 
R. R. Patterson, 429 Montgomery St. 

1894. 






'vr.sSi?vs^-k^^-^v>5<^^,-^S^;^.^s^s^S^^^ 




PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON, 

Speoialita per le malattie d.i dotine, 
OflBce and Residence, Office Hours 

1308 STOCKTON STREET, 8 to 9 a. m. and 2 to 4 p. m 

Bet. Broadway and Vallejo. 

LA PIU' VECCHIA CAS A. 

lACCHERi &BACICALUPI 

627 BROADWAY 627 

CBT-TEL-EIFONO 893. 'Vd 

Sola casa italiana che On accetta fanerali chinesi. 

Prezzi modici e massima pulizia. Si eseguiscono e forniscon casse di qualsiasi 
quality. 






OF , 



SIGNOR A."A. NOBILE. 

fl 



NOVELS 
^ TRANSLATIONS 
LECTURES 



O .1 > 



'•-■ "^ VVAv'. 



//f^"!?- 



SAN FRANCISCO : 

R. R. Patterson, 429 Montgomery St. 

1894. 






.n>^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 18!>1, l)y 

A. Alexander Nobile, in the office of the Librarian 

of Congi-ess. at Washington 






fl. fl. HOBIUE. 



Achilles Alexander Nobile. the author, and publisher of this book 
was born in Is'aples on the 13th day of July 1838. His father was 
named Alexander Nobile, and the maiden name of his mother was 
Fortunata Nanso. His father dying of Cholera in the epidemic of the 
year 1834, his mother intermarried with Frederic Sorvillo. 

He received his primary education in the Institute Moccellini at 
Naples. In 1843 he entered the college of St. Frediaiio in Lucca, and 
remained in that institution for eighteen months. He then entered the 
college of St. Catherine in Pisa. At the conclusion of his course, in 
this college the University of Pisa conferred on him the degree of 
Bachelor of Philosophy. This was in 1849. After this he studied law 
in the said University of Pisa. 

At 19 years of age, being spurred on by the ambition common to 
spirited young men he closed his books, bade good bye to his mother, 
and started on his travels to see the world. 

He traveled around to different parts until the breaking out of the 
Crimean war. He made a campaign in that under the Britiish flag, 
along with the Swiss Legion. On the close of that war, he went to 
South America, and served under the order of Mayor Von Eherenkeutz 
as Under Lieutenant of Artillery, in the service of the Argentine Kep- 
nblic. Upon the breaking of the war of the Italian Independance in 
1859, he returned to Italy, and volunteered as a private in the service 
of his country. He passed the grades, and was nominated Staff Under- 
Lieutenant, September 20, I860. When the Franco-Prussian war broke 
out, he volunteered again, and served through that war under General 
FrapoUi. 

When not soldiering, he was in turn teacher, reader and lecturer. 

He arrived in San Francisco in 1889, where he has since remained, 
captivated by the charms of the city. Here he has learned the printer's 
art, and established a VV^eekly Italian newspaper, entitled the "Vespa." 

Signor Nobile is also the type setter of this book. Besides this volume 
now in press, he is engaged on and will publish a memoir of his life and 
traysla which must be very entertaining. 



An Anonymous Letter. 



THE PUBLIC WRITER. 

Fifteen or sixteen years ago, the courtyard of the Holy 
Chapel presented quite a difierent aspect from that which 
it now presents. It is not because many changes have been 
made, or because the streets leading to it have been 
improved or widened. No. Everything has remained 
in nearly its primitive state. The wooden wall which 
once enclosed the staircase by which the people ascended 
to the corridor communicating whith the public Hall of 
\\\Qpas perdus, though a little elevated, till encircles the 
old monument; but with the increasing activity which 
took place in the locality, many of the characteristic 
marks of old Paris have gradually disappeared. Before 
the opening of this new thoroughfare the court of the 
Holy Chapel was almost a suburb cf the city where every 
trace of Parisian society was lost, one after another. This 
courtyard formed a little world by itself, which had its 
own invariable customs; now noisy, noAV silent and always 
frequented by the same people; early in the morning by 
the ushers of the Supreme Court who r3mained till the 
hour at which the referendaires were used to arrive, by 



G 

the clerks of a lawyer's office situated upon the treshold 
of the den of sophistry, and by the housekeepers of the 
neighborhood, who mingled with the water carriers at 
the corner of the little street of St. Ann. At twelve o'clock, 
when all was quiet, the honorable members of public saf- 
ety, whose barracks were not far off, and who, without 
any effort of imagination, could have been compared to 
the paltoniers of old times, v/ere used to come to warm 
themselves in the sunshine. Every day at about the same 
time the courtyard resounded with the noise of heavy 
vans whose stables were at the northern corner of the 
Corte det Conti. At this place, in a recess behind the 
staircase and precisely under the hall of the first chamber 
of the Supremo Court had lived for fifteen or twenty 
years a man called Duverrier, a contractor of the pris- 
oners' conveyance, an industry advantageous enough to 
allow him the gratification of the luxury of rare flowers^ 
which was his strongest passion. The entrance to the 
dark cavern which he inhabited, greatly resembled a 
florist's stall, and the grass which was growing through 
the pavement prolonged the verdure a few feet further 
the narrow space which he used as a garden. At twilight, 
when the monotonous silence was only broken by the 
steps of the sentinel beneath the gas burning before the 
palace, this dimly lighted and almost deserted place was 
the rendezvous of the lovers from the sorrounding streets. 
Each morning resembled the preceding, always the same 
events, and, we may say, almost the same conversations 
exchanged by the same people. 

On account of the increasing activity many offices of 
public writers had been opened around the walls of the 
Holy Chapel, but at the time when our narrative begins 
only one of these offices had remained, and it was situat- 
ed at the right hand of the covered passage leading ta 



the Rue de la Barilerie, Every morning the tenant of 
this hole as big as a sentinel's box used to hang in the 
most c'onspicous place a frame containing many specimens 
of different kinds of writing, which, profusely decorated 
with flourishes, were hardly intelligible. It was almost 
impossible for the owner to look at those testimonials of 
his calligraphic ability without raising his eyes to Heaven, 
and without heaving a deep sigh, as if they awakened in 
him the memories of better times, and sorrows at the 
unjust contempt into which he had fallen. 

On the four opaques and dirty panes of glass, through 
which light penetrated into this box was written in yellow 
letters: Editorials, Memorials, Petitions, Letters of 
Compliments for Christmas and New Years," and on 
the other side: " A. C. Ternisien, Ex-Professor of 
Penmanship in the University." Notwithstanding the 
above high qualification and the complete absence of 
competition, one would infer by the dress of the poor 
writer that the sign produced very little effect. In winter 
as in summer his suit was always the same. A black silk 
scull-cap on which rested continually a hat, made water- 
proof by a thick coat of grease, while as his ouly suit he 
always carried a thin alpaca coat, the original color of 
which, together with its lining, had ceased :to be discern- 
ible and whose torn and opened pockets, always emi)ty, 
yawned at pleasure, a waistcoat with metal buttons, a 
worn-out pair of black trousers, shrunken and scarcely 
reaching to his ankles, a very coarse pair of felt stockings 
and wooden shoes filled with straw, complete the dress; 
and yet, with all these rags, Ternisien appeared in no 
way disgusting or repulsive, because in his countenance 
beamed an honesty and kindness which were not feigned. 
In him every one could recognize a gentleman fallen 
from a better condition neither brutalized by misery nor 



8 

degraded by druukness, the vice belonging to those who 
suffer hunger. 

His face and hands were always cleaner than his dress; 
his voice was very melodious; his features expressed 
resignation, even when, as he daily did, he was compla- 
ining to his neigbor Duverrier: and often his complaint 
would have lasted all day but for the arrival of some 
customers, who would happen to come and interrupt 
them. 

In spite of his excessive economy, his work would not 
have been sufficient for his daily wants, if he had not 
been the possessor of a little capital acquired with great 
pain in better times, which was destined to buy for him 
abed in some hospital, when old age, which was approa- 
ching with hurried steps, should deprive him of his 
sight. For this reason, these savings were sacred to him. 
He considered them as a deposit which the old professor 
of penmanship had entrusted to the hands of the public 
writer. It was very painful to him not to be able to add 
the interest to the capital. Even if his office had been 
richly furnished, or in a better location, it is most prob- 
able that the upright Ternisien would not have realized 
profits in proportion to his labors. 

The poor man possessed one fault, the drawbacks of 
which were increased by an exagerated honesty. He suf- 
fered from absent-mindedness, and whether he wrote 
from dictation or he copied, the orthographical mistakes, 
the repeated words which neededto be erased, multiplied 
themselves under his pen. Always mistrusting himself 
and his want of attention, he used to read over accurately 
what he wrote, making the necessary corrections, and 
when these were too numerous, he again began his work, 
without adding a cent to the stipulated price, not wishing 
to deceive about the quality of h is work, nor that customers 
should pay for his absent-mindedness. 



9 

Scruples of this kind in commercial transactions, which 
ranged from five to twelve cents, made him a real loser 
each time, as unfortunately for him, his distraction had 
spoiled a few sheets of ministerial paper. 

'' Well, sir, what news ? " was the question Ternisien 
used to address his neighbor Duverrier every time he 
passed his office, while Duverrier never failed to answer : 
"May I ask the same of you ? " 

In this way the conversation, begun with almost always 
the same preamble, lasted some time. Of course, as every 
•one could easily understand, the first topic was the politi- 
cal situation, which proceeded to the satisfaction of neither. 
These considerations of high importance being ended, 
they passed to personal facts. Duverrier, whose business 
was a prosperous one, avowed himself an optimist, while 
on the other hand, Ternisien looked at the dark side of 
everything. 

" I am going to give you a piece of good and re- assur- 
ing news." 

^' AVhat is it ? " 

" Nothing of importance. While I was watering the 
flowers, Mr. B., the referendaire who is in the good graces 
<jf the president, approached me with these words : " Mr. 
Duverrier, you have very beautiful camelias." For your 
sake I seized the occasion, and I took the liberty of pre- 
senting him with a few Timoleon's bulbs for a garden 
which he rented at Passy." 

" If you have done this in my interest," answered Ter- 
nisien, " I thank you very much, although, my good 
friend, I shall beg of you to explain to me what I have to 
<io and in what way I am connected with this business." 
" You must have heard of a scheme to beautify our 
courtyard of the Holy Chapel. Now guess, if you can, 
what were the intentions of these gentlemen ? Now, since 



10^ 

I found you a protector, I may tell you without fear. 
Well then, they intend to destroy your office and send you 
elsewhere to carry on your business." 

"Indeed ? " exclaimed Ternisien with the expression of 
a person about to lose what he wrongly called his sup- 
porting business. 

"Yes," added the other ; " but be at ease. As I have 
told you already, I took advantage to speak of it to Mr. B. 
He has a certain esteem for me, and you will not remove." 

Those last words ought to have brought back to the 
lips of Ternisien the usual smile, but his thoughts had 
fled to his situation, and instead of smiling he heaved a 
deep sigh. 

"Are you sorry ?" asked Duverrier. 

"No, no, on the coutrary ; again accept my heartfelt 
thanks. At least hope will be left to me, and hope is 
something, although alone it cannot enrich us. Listen^ 
my friend, now my profession is not worth a cent. In- 
novation has killed us. In France nothing is permanent. 
Every day brings new changes, and old habits are as 
well loved as cast-off clothing. Arts, which were once 
praised, are now despised. What good can you expect 
from such a state of things ? " 

"Upon my word," answered Duverrier, "I can't und- 
erstand what you are complaining of. For my part I 
believe innovations are very excellent indeed. Mankind 
tends always to perfection, this being one of the laws of 
society. For example, my father used to convey the 
prisoners in cars, which brought so many shocks that, at 
the moment of leaving, the poor men were obliged to. 
review their teeth in order to see whether they had lost 
any. I, on the contrary, carry my prisoners in carriages, 
so soft, that they are as comfortable as if they were on 
the best coach. Do you see anything bad in this im- 
provement? I do not. 



11 

"Possibly," said Ternisien, " the same does not happen 
to me. When first I established myself in this abode I 
had some little profit. From time to time I chanced to 
have a good job, which gave me time to wait patiently 
and which made up for the days I was without work. 
Near by, at the lawyer's ofiice, I had splendid customers. 
When they had plenty of work and wished to enjoy them- 
selves, they furtively brought to me copying to do. They 
paid without bargaining and without a murmur, and 
the work was easy because they recommended me to do 
it in the most unintelligible manner." 

"And why, please, do they not call any more on your 
talent?" 

** Because they don't need it. Have not lithography 
and type-writing been invented? The work is done quickly 
and at less cost. It is thus that artists become ruined. 
I shudder to think of it; it is the last blow given to pen- 
manship. I, who now am speaking to you, once used to 
give lessons at sixty cents each; I have taught the pos- 
ition of the body and how to manage the pen to lads of 
the first families, to misses who had hands whiter and 
softer than the paper on which they used to write. I 
taught in a college of the capital, and, to become perfect, 
two years of application were necessary. AVe taught by 
principles, and slowly, while now some charlatans, who 
have turned everything topsy-turvy, pretend to teach 
penmanship in six weeks. All that made me shudder. 
Truly, I am no longer a young man, but my eye is good 
and my hand does not tremble yet, and if the old methods 
were esteemed as they deserve, I should not be a public 
writer. 

Ternisien had never before delivered so long a speech. 
He felt the need of resting himself, wiped his nose and 
offered Duverrier his snuff-box. 



12 

The latter took advantage of this pause to sa3^• 

"Why do not employ the new methods if the old ones 
are no longer useful?" 

"I!" replied the old professor with a look of contempt; 
**I! Should I then have wasted twenty years of my life 
in studying the art of writing well? Should I have over- 
come all the difficulties and learned all the forms of pen- 
manship — ro2ind hand^ Gothic^ Italian^ etc. — only in order 
to approve now with my example a bad innovation? 
Never! And Ly the way, do you know this renowned 
and extolled invention, about which Carstairs and his 
pupils made so much noise? It is simply the inclined 
calligraphy which they impudently have disfigured and 
by a mechanical process, apart from intellect, have made 
uniform for everybody. And here is where the evil lies! 
A cook may write as well as his own teacher, and their 
own handwriting will be similar that no difference can 
be distinguished, and then of wdiat use will be that other 
useful and precious art of guessing the moral character 
of an individual by his handwriting, I should ask you. 
No, no, Chrisostomus Ternisien will never countenance 
the propagation of such impious inventions. I am ready 
to change my profession, and by compelling me to leave 
the i^lace they will perhaps confer a favor on me." 

His interlocutor was already preparing himself to ask 
of him the explanation of these last words, but was pre- 
vented from doing so by the arrival of a lad between 
twelve or thirteen years old, resolute in his bearing, bold 
and quick like a true gamin of Paris, who, turning his 
eyes from one to another, ended by asking : 

"Are you the writer? 

Duverrier went away, leaving Ternisien alone with his 
customer. 

"What do you want, young man? 



13 

"I wish you to copy this," answered the youth, showing 
him a piece of paper which he folded in his fingers. 

Ternisien glanced at it without reading it, and only 
assured himself of the quantity of the work. After this 
first inspection, going out of the shop and bringing his 
customer before the frame, he asked him: 

*'What sort of w^riting do you wish?" and with his 
fingers pointed out the different specimens. 

The lad looked at him, and finally told him to choose 
the cheapest. 

Ternisien went to his seat, prepared a beautiful sheet 
of paper, cut a new pen and began the reading of the 
manuscript. After a few lines he stopped, raised his 
eyes to the little urchin, who was standing with his 
shoulders against the posters of the door, and, who with 
crossed arms and legs, was whistling an air with variations 
of his own. Any one, who might have observed the looks 
of Ternisien, could have easily perceived an expression 
of doubt and astonishment, when he turned his face to 
the boy. 

In a moment he opened his mouth as if to call him, 
but seeing him so careless and so little concerned regard- 
ing what passed on behind his shoulders, he pursued his 
reading. As he progressed, his eyes became animated; 
curiosity and interest appeared in his face, it seemed that 
he was trying to solve a problem which required all the 
force of his imagination. 

The boy continued to whistle as a lark, and Ternisien 
did not mind it. 

Having taken the pen, he examined it, putting it 
between him and the light, and already dipping in the 
ink and flourishing it, was ready to trace the first letter, 
when suddenly he entered into a new and different order 
of ideas. Hesitation succeeded the interest with which 



14 

he had read those lines. Evidently he struggled between 
the mechanical work of his profession and the apprecia- 
tion of the writing he had under his eyes. Ternisien's 
intelligence was not bright; constantly closed in the 
narrow circle of a specialty, which did not require any 
effort of imagination, he confined himself to the form of 
the thoughts without trying to penetrate them. He was 
like those materialistic philosophers to whom the creature 
hides the crea.tor, and inasmuch as misfortune has 
always the sure effect of reviving convinction in men who 
are suffering, the more his name was spurned, the more 
he exaggerated his own importance. Of all his sufferings 
he had formed a sort of religion of which he was the 
martyr. But if in his poor brain reason had darkened 
itself to such an extent, his soul had kept its candor and 
all its primitive uprightness. Straightforward with his 
customers, he was also straightforward with himself. His 
pride as professor was mortified at descending to the 
position of an employee, and he only yielded to necessity 
every time that for a moderate price he wrote insignificant 
lines; but he often shuddered when he thought that he 
might lend the aid of his pen to sinful words, and feared 
that he who was incapable of telling a lie even for his 
own advantage, sometimes might be an instrument of 
calumny and falsehood. This has been precisely the 
secret feeling he intended to express when he had said 
compelling me to leave this place i\v&Y will perhaps confer 
a favor on me. His impossibility to exercise any other 
profession obliged him to remain in this. The writing 
to be copied was of such a nature as to inspire him with 
reflections very embarassing to his conscience. 

In spite of his cleverness in interpreting the handwrit- 
ing of these lines, he remained uncertain, and convicted 
of impotence in the same way as an academician stands 



15 

in the presence of a hieroglyphical inscription. His 
position was graver and more serious. Of Avliat int- 
erest in history indeed is a false statement or mistake? 
What is falsehood or truth to those who are dead, and 
even to those who are alive? In his case instead, although 
^he did not know by whom the letter had been written, 
nor to whom it was addressed, nor what sincere or per- 
fidious interest had dictated it, he was afraid when he 
thought of the consequences that letter may bring. The 
wretched man, lost in this labyrint, had vainly asked 
advice of his usual counsellor. He rolled between the 
thumb and forefinger of the left hand a pinch of snuff 
which he took from time to time; he applied to the gift 
of writing the same apologue Esopus had applied to the 
speech, and allowing himself to be carried away by the 
strenght of his learned digressions and by his classical 
remembrances, in a solemn voice he cried: 

"If like Achilles' spear which cured the wound made 
by itselfl" 

"What is the matter?" asked the boy, turning around, 
"have you finished perchance?" 

"I have not yet began." 

OhI perhaps you do not know how to write, or are you 
waiting for some one to help you. Give me back my paper 
or hasten, I am in a hurry. Somebody is waiting for me.'' 

" Perhaps the same person who gave you this letter? " 
asked Ternisien. 

" No, but some of my friends with whom I was playing 
marbles. I left my turn to another boy who does,. not 
play so well as I, and having ten cents in the game I 
would be glad to know how business is standing. Quickly, 
move around, double quick, as I have yet another errand 
to do; are you perhaps frightened about the payment? 
Here it is, I pay you sixteen cents in advance. I do not 



16 

wraugle, but I am in a hurry and you must, be quick. " 

Without being moved, without sharing in this impa- 
tience, the old writer said to the boy: 

" Who send you on'this errand?" 

The boy looking at him, answered: 

" Somebody, " and then turned up his nose and stuck 
out his tongue and his lower lip. Any other man would 
have punished this very disrespectful act, but the kind 
old man renewed the question. 

" If formerly I answered you somebody, " said the boy, 
" it is quite clear that you ought to know no more than 
that. What else? They gave me the letter with the 
instructions to have it copied by a public writer; they 
gave me the money and I went away to execute thejr 
orders. I pray you, why then do you not do your duty? 
That's all. Would you like me to whistle you anothe air? 
Perhaps it will please you, " and he began to whistle a 

ballad which was then very popular 

" When love Avas constant, etc. " 

Ternisien again put before him on the table, which 
was his desk, the letter and the paper, and again took up 
the pen. It was not the desire of earning the sixteen 
cents, magnificent recompense far a few minutes' work, 
that had decided him to do it. He had made two very 
easy reflections which overcame all his scruples: firstly 
that what he was going to write might as well be true as 
false; secondly, that if he should refuse, a less scrupulous 
colleague would do it. It must be said that he was much 
moved by curiosity, and he was waiting for the time 
when, according to the instruction given (without doubt) 
to the boy, he would write tha name and address of the 
person to whom the letter was addressed. Nevertheless, 
before beginning to write, he asked: 

" Have you read this letter? " 



17 

" I? I can't read. I Jo not know the name of the letters 
and I would be sorry to be a learned man as you are." 

"Why so?" 

" A nice question! Because you would not have had 
the pleasure of my acquaintance, and I that of telling 
you that you would do better to move your pen than your 
tongue. The person gave me this paper asked me, before 
all, if I was able to read, and I answered no. Then I 
received my instructions with three francs, of which I 
shall give you sixteen cents, if you make haste, and you 
instead are going slow as a snail. " 

Ternisien, seeing that he would not obtain any further 
information, began his work. He had so attentively read 
and weighed every word of the paper that he had almost 
learned it by heart. Every word expressed such serious 
facts, such important revelations, that they had engraved 
themselves in his memory so as to prevent any possible 
distraction. Contrary to his habit, he copied the paper 
without a single mistake. As soon he had done he folded 
the sheet, and turning to the boy he said; 

" Did they give you the name and address to which it 
is going? " 

"Yes" answered he, extending his hand to the table 
with celerity and without being noticed, " yes it is written 
with pencil on a piece of paper which is in the left pocket 
of my waistcoat, but you must not know it. " 

At the same time, he took the letter and jumping back- 
ward moved to leave the shop. 

" Some other one is going to scribble this address, " he 
added; "I have my orders. " 

" Give me back that letter, " asked Ternisien; so many 
precautions do not mean anything good." 

" No, " answered the boy, I will not give it back, and 
even you will return to me the copy I have brought you. 



18 

or you will tear it in my own presence. This order has 
bsen strictly, given to me. " 

" Even that! " exclaimed the writer, clasping his hands. 
" Ah! from this time I swear never more to copy anony- 
mous letters. They surely intend to destroy the traces 
of this one, and I ought have refused it." 

'' What a stupid old man, " said the boy; " he looks as 
if he were saying his prayers. Well, then, good man, you 
must come to a decision. Tear up the paper or you will 
not get your money. " And the sixteen cents from the 
table had returned to his hands. Searching on the table 
for the paper, which in the first movement he had pushed 
away and mixed with others, Ternisien tore it in a thou- 
sand pieces and threw them in the face of tlie boy, saying 
to him: 

"Away with you! young rascal. " 

"A rascal? Yes, but not a thief," replied the boy; 
" here is your cash. " And taking his aim, he threw the 
eight two cent piece into the big pocket which yawned at 
the side of the writer's coat, and in which they fell as in a 
ravine. He then retired, walking backward and laughing 
at the ex-professor, and bold and impudent, went away 
like a sparrow who laughs at those who try to catch him. 

Ternisien for a while remained in deep meditation. 
At last he got up, put his papers in order, took with him 
a sheet of paper, shut his office, and crossing the courtyard, 
went to speak with his neighbor who was watering his 
camelias. 

The boy, faithfully following the orders he had received, 
brought the letter to another public writer and then 
posted it. It was addressed; 

Julius Valabert, Esq. , 

Auditor of the State Council, 

Rue de Lille, ZA:. 



19 

.11. 
THE LOVERS. 

What we have narrated is in a certain way, tlie prolo- 
gue of our tale. AVe must go back a little to present to 
our readers the principal persons who will figure in this 
story. And to begin, we will introduce them to a house 
in Furstemberg street, in the most distant part of St. 
'Germain's thoroughfare. ^ 

The apartment in the second story is neither rich nor 
luxurious; there one does not see expensive furniture, nor 
rich curtain°, nor costly bric-a- brae, — in the parlor only 
a looking-glass, in the windows plain cotton curtains, 
some easy chairs but not a sofa, a bare ceiling and a 
simple carpet, green like the wall paper of the room. The 
only object which seemed of any value was a piano of the 
newest fashion, out near which were piled many books of 
songs and complete operas. In spite of the modest value 
of the objects which furnished this principal room, the 
good taste which had presided over the harmony of the 
whole gave to it an aspect of elegance, and it could easily 
be surmised that this so clean and so well-kept apartment 
belonged to a lady. 

In fact, near the window, before a tapestry frame, a 
beautiful person was seated, hastily finishing a very 
pretty piece of work. She was dressed in white, and the 
simplicity of her toilet harmonized thoroughly with that 
of the place in which she lived. Her long dark eyebrows, 
lowered upon her work, rose only at intervals, and then 
her beautiful dark eyes turned to the clock, the hands of 
which seemed to move too quickly for her. Her hands, 
of a wonderful whiteness, could have served as a model 
to a portrait painter if the extremity of the fingers had 



:20 

been thinner. Her neck, finely shaped, was of perfect 
form and beauty, and imparted grace and flexibility to 
every movement of the head. Finally the moment ar- 
rived when the young girl consulted the clock with pleas- 
ure and cut the last thread of the tapestry. 

Getting up from the chair and giving a last glance at 
the whole of her work, she rang. An old servant appeared. 

"Marion," she said to her with a joy which sparkled 
in her eyes and was evident in her voice,-' at last this 
work is finished. What do you think of it?" 

Marion approved with majestic air, and struck with 
the brightness of the colors and exquisite taste with 
which they were arranged, exclaimed: " It is a master- 
piece! if you would let me act according to my own fancy, 
you would receive a better price. " 

"You know that every work is already sold at the 
same store and for the same price." 

"Jews! " murmured the old woman. 

" It isn't right, Marion, to treat in such a way kind 
people who have procured for me a steady and sure 
resource, which supports me." 

" Oh! upon my word, if you would, you need not work. " 

A severe look stopped the words of Marion, who turn- 
ing her eyes in another direction, replied with great 
embarrassment: 

" I meant to speak of your talent in music; there are 
few teachers of your ability, and when you used to give 
lessons at two dollars each " 

" That displeased Julius. " 

"It is true," answered the old woman," since then you 
play music only for him. To tell the truth, I prefer this 
life to the old way of living, always in town and alone, 
whatever might be the .season, while at present you do 
not go out any more, except when Julius gives you his 
arm, which happeus very seldom, indeed. " 



21 

A second look from the mistress ended Marion's babble. 

While she spoke, the young lady had taken the tapestry 
from the frame and fold 3d it with great care. 

"Be quick; take it away before Julius arrives," said 
the young woman, " and hide the frame so that he cannot 
see it. This is his hour. " 

" Be careful; Master Julius does not Uke mistery. " 

" Alas! God only knows how much it costs me to have 
a secret from him. 

She made a sign and Marion went out, leaving her 
mistress in deep thought, this brief conversation having 
been sufficient to recall to her mind her present situation. 

Fanny was three years old when she lost her mother. 
Her father, a teacher in a provincial town, spared neither 
})ains nor trouble to educate her. His dear and only 
daughter was always the first and best among his pupils. 
Showing a decided inclination for music, a competent 
teacher was given her. In everything she progressed 
rapidly, and in a short time her father was able to see 
her as perfect as he wished to be. She was scarcely 
sixteen years old, when Mr. Dusmenil, satisfied of having 
warned her in general terms against the dangers which 
threaten a maiden, gave her a freedom which, for a heart 
naturally tender and open to impressions would be dan- 
gerous. Among other liberties, he permitted her to remain 
long days togheter with a neighbor's son named Ernest, 
a young man rather good-looking, who lacked not clev- 
erness. It is true that Mr. Dusmenil saw in Ernest, 
educated with his daughter and until that time an in- 
nocent companion in her studies and plays, the future 
husband whom he secretly destined for Fanny, and, there- 
fore, did not discourage an intimacy which would aff'ord 
them the opportunity of mutually knowing each other. 
This time that which had been anticipated did not happen. 



22 

Fanny, ia the presence of her childhood's friend, ex- 
perienced no emotion, either because her hour had not 
yet arrived or else because it is almost impossible that 
true friendship should change in love. 

The time was j^assing pleasantly and her future seemed 
smiling and flattering, when she was overtaken by a 
dreadful misfortune. Her father died almost suddenly, 
leaving no fortune. Ernest was then absent, and his 
family, on account of Fanny's poverty, did not show 
further desire to carry cut the proposed marriage. 

Fanny resolved not to wait for Ernest's return and left, 
retiring to an old relative's whose only assistance cons- 
isted in advising her to employ the little money she yet 
possessed in developing her talents and in taking a few 
lessons before begin to teach. She soon succeeded in 
securing a few pupils, by which means, little by little, she 
derived a certain amount of comfort. 

One day she was called at a house in the Ghaussee 
d'Antin, to teach music to a young lady about ten years 
old, named Eliza Saint-Gilles. 

The family into which she was introduced consisted of 
influential people, proud of their riches. Being request- 
ed to play, she performed a selection which enraptured 
all these present. Among others, a young man made 
himself conspicuous for his lively admiration, although 
Fanny, on her part, paid no attention to his compliments. 
The following day, at the time of the lesson, the young 
gentleman happened to be in the room and continued to 
come every day, sometimes at the beginning and Rt other 
times at the end of it. His eyes constantly fixed on the 
teacher, forced her to blush and in spite of lierseli 
troubled her. Chance, one day, left him alone with 
Fanny at the moment in which her lesson had ended 
and while her pupil was going out for a walk. Persuad- 



ed that hs woul-1 filial little severity in a young girl who 
was living alone and who, on account of her profession, 
was dependent upon the public, he spoke to her of love 
with an air of assurance and self-conceit, and tried to 
approach her. 

A gesture fall of dignity forced him to stop. 

■' 1 am an orphan, " she said to him; " 1 have no rela- 
tive, no defender; my only support is this," pointing to 
the piano, " and you are trying to deprive me of it, be- 
cause it is certain that I should no longer dare to come 
to this house," 

After saying these words, Fanny went out, but on 
reaching home, still affected and her eyes filled with tears , 
she received a letter in which Mr. Julius Valabert, ac- 
knowledging what kind of woman he had offended, pres- 
ented his most respectful apologies and entreated her not 
to add to the faults with which he already reproached 
himself that of having caused her departure from the 
house of Saint-Gilles, and promised her never more to go 
there. If Fanny had a mother, her conduct would have 
been different. 

The culprit's repentance found favor with Fanny. The 
fear of an unpleasant scandal if the reason of her not 
going any more to the lesson should have been suspected 
and the security inspired by this letter, caused her to 
return to Mrs. Saint-Gilles' house. The young man appear- 
ed no more. The human heart is always full of strange 
contradictions, and even the sincerest is ihe most ingen- 
ious in deceiving itself. Fanny on returning on that 
house, had really thought she would not again meet Mr. 
Valabert; and yet, without knowing it, she was dominat- 
ed by a vague hope that Julius would come in person to 
present his apologies. Vainly she prolonged her lessons 
beyond the time she ought to have given them; the inter- 



24 

est wliich she used to take in the progress of her pupil 
was no longer the same, and her zeal in teaching was 
infinitely diminished. 

Was she comprehending lier real feelings? No; without 
doubt she did not understand lierself until the day when, 
arriving earlier than usual, she noticed the presence 
of Julius. 

By the blushes which she felt suffuse her face, by the 
sadden palpitation of her heart, she understood what she 
had tried to hide from herself, that she loved Julius. 

When he timidly asked of her, as a great favor, per- 
mission to be present at the lesson, she had no strength 
to refuse him, so great was the inward joy. That day she 
accompanied badly and sung out of tune, but on the fol- 
io ving day, already prepared for the presence of Julius, 
who did not move from the parlor, she sung with such 
expression and threw so much soul into the notes that 
the enamored and ecstasied youth could only thank her 
with his eyes for the pleasure he had felt in listening to 
her. The girl's joy was intense and noticeable. A few 
day afterwards they ventured to sing together, a danger- 
ous experiment which was repeated many times, and the 
harmonious, fascinating music achieved the seduction. 

This would have been the right time for her to fly, but 
she had not the courage to do so. No one was there to 
teach her that sentiment of reason which sh3 lacked, and 
not knowing how to close her ears against the language 
of a young and sincere lover, she had the weakness to 
betray herself. 

On his part, he passionately begged of her to grant him 
the happiness of seeing her alone and of being received 
at her home; his grief was so violent, his tears so sincere, 
his passion so prevailing, that one day he knelt at the 
feet of Fanny, in her little apartment in Furstemburg 



25 

street. Alas! Poor Fanny had no mother to watch on her. 

Six months after, when we meet Fanny, in spite of the 
great love of Julius, which seemed to increase daily in 
intensity, she felt a deep and strong sorrow which poison- 
ed her happiness. At the side of Julius she endeavored 
to overcome it, asking from love the oblivion of her re- 
morse. But in the hours of solitude and reflection, a 
lively grief mastered her heart, tears flowed abundantly 
as soon as her thoughts departed from the present, 
marching toward the future. Her only hope reposed on 
the uncertain duration of the love of Julius. For al- 
though he was most tender and affectionate, yet he had 
some faults which rightly grieved her. The principal 
ones were mistrust and jealousy. Already to please liiju , she 
had decided to discontinue her lessons, as Julius thought 
her profession a little precarious, because he, witli his 
experience, had learned to what dangers a young teacher 
is exposed; and although renouncing in this way the exer- 
cise of her talents she had lost much, yet she would 
accept nothing from her lover. Fanny succeeded in 
persuading Julius that she had still a small income aris- 
ing from the united legacies of her father and an old aunt 
which, together with savings, (now almost exhausted,) 
was enough for her needs. We have already seen how 
the poor girl added to her scanty income by tlie sale of 
her tapestry-work, in which, as in many other things, she 
was indeed very skillful. 

Very few minutes had passed since Marion had gone, 
when Fanny was disturbed in her meditations by a sharp 
pull of the bell, which restored her gayety. 

"At last! " she thought, and run to open the door. 

Julius entered. He was a young man about thirty 
years old, with dark hair and rather pallid complexion. 
The habit of serious study had imparted to his counts- 



26 

nance a premature gravity, and although naturally kind 
and inclined to indulgence, one might have noticed in 
his looks that distrust common to all those who on account 
of their studies, keep aloof from the world, and who are 
not accustomed to judge of men and things at a single 
glance. At the moment Julius appeared, he had the 
thoughtful mien of a man who has taken an important 
resolution and had prepared himself to disclose it. After 
having glanced around him, he asked where Marion was. 

** I sent her on an errand, " answered Fanny, without 
any further explanation. 

Julius entered ♦he parlor, took Fann3^'s beautiful hands 
in his own, kissed them, and mentioning her a seat, seat- 
ed himself near her. 

" Fanny, " he began with the sweetest voice, '' Fanny, 
are you happy?" 

" Certainly, " she answered, *' how could it be other- 
wise? Is not your love always the same? Every time 
you wish to know if I am happy, ask yourself if you 
love me. " 

^' Yet, nevertheless, " replied Julius, " you are suffer- 
ing without confiding it to me, as if your heart were 
hiding something from me. More than once 1 have 
discovered traces of tears in your face; more than once I 
thought I had guessed the agitations of your soul. From 
whence that grief which your feigned gayety cannot hide 
from me? Speak, Fanny, have confidence on me; what 
do you wish? What do you require of me? " 

*' Nothing! Have I not told often you that your love 
is enough for me? " 

*' Do you not possess it entirely? I know well you do 
not ask for splendor, or luxury, or the pleasure of vanity. 
You refused my gifts, and I was obliged to yield to a 
pride I so much appreciated. Fanny, that which you 



27 

wish for, the desire which troubles your joy and quie^ 
and perhaps injures your health also, is then greater 
than my riches, greater than my love? " 

" Can you think so? 

He smiled sweetly, adding in a most encouraging tone; 
" Speak, tell me it, open your heart to me." 

Fanny answered: " Friend, I do not complain of my 
own lot, I made it what it is. I love you, and so long as 
you will love me I shall have no other grief. Forgive 
me if some remembrance of the past comes to my mind, 
and tries to disturb the happiness I feel with you. Alas! 
despite of myself, against my wishes, sometimes, I often 
fancy to see my father, my poor father who loved me so 
much, appear before me with angry face, asking a strict 
account of the principles in which he had educated me, 
I have no reason to reproach you. I asked only for your 
love, and until now you have given it. You had only 
promised me faithfulness, and you have kept your prom- 
ise. What reason have I, then, to complain? What 
are the causes of my grief? I am happy, you know it 
very well. " 

While saying these words, she wiped a falling tear. 

Julius pressing her head to his breast, answered: 

"Yes, dear Fanny, without doubt I promised you my 
love, but th's love is capable of anything; it will not stop 
short of sacrifices which will cease to be called such the 
moment when through them you recover your peace 
and happiness. 

*' What do you mean?*' she asked, raising her beauti- 
ful eyes, full of wonder. 

" Yesterday you confided me something." 

She blushed and bent her head. 

**To day I ttnswer with another confidence. My family 
wish me to marry. " 
'•What then?" 



2S 

" Well I have resolved to choose a companion, but I 
will not go to find her among the women belonging to 
the claos of those apparently wealthy but poor in true 
merit, in whom vanity corrupts the best sentiments — 
among those ladies who think that a great name or a 
great fortune can dispense with virtue or talent. No; she 
whom I choose will be a timid and modest woman, whose 
heart I have already learned to know, sufficiently in love 
to have yielded to me, sufficiently virtuous to feel repent- 
ant — a woman, in short, who is worthy to bear the name 
of an honest man. You, Fanny, are that woman; that 
name is mine. I offer it to you; do you accept it? 

The poor girl listened as if she could not understand 
his words. When Julius had finished, she remained a 
little while with her hands clasped and as though she 
were yet listening to him, 

Julius took her hand and gazed at her lovingly. 

" Is it true?" she said at last; "is it not a dream?" 

" No, no; it would be too cruel were it not in earnest. " 

" Oh! dear! " and while so saying she let herself fall 
into his arms, but soon freeing herself from him, she 
fell upon her knees, exclaiming: 

"Oh! my father!" 

A thought crossed her mind, and raising, she approach- 
ed Julius, and regarding him fixedly all the time she 
was speaking, said: 

" Thanks, dear, for your generosity. If you could read 
my heart, what gratitude and new love would you dis- 
cover in it. I have yet a question to ask you. Listen: 
these words are serious, and I pray you seriously to 
answer them. If what you told me is only dictated by 
conscience, if you offer me your hand, this precious 
present by me so long wished for, only as a performance 
of a sacred duty, if some day, in the future, your heart 



29 

should murmur against the sagrifice you are making for 
my sake, then how great will b 3 my grief; and although I 
have no right to think of myself alone, yet I shouM prefer 
to hide my loneliness and shame in some unknown 
place rather than to live with you, spurned and despised 
by a husband who would soon repent of the concessions 
given in a moment when passion overpowered him. " 

"Fanny, " replied the youth, " I swear to you that my_ 
heart only has urged me to take such a step. " 

Again she fell at his feet. He raised her, and in a few 
minutes Julius was kneeling before her, saying: 

*' Now, Fanny, will you refuse me what I am going to 

ask of you." 

" What x^an I refuse? What do you wish of me? 
" A proof of love. As you well know, T always feared 
that your heart, before being acquainted with me, had 
loved another. You have always assured me of the con- 
trary, nevertheless this fear often returns to my thoughts. 
To day I doubt no more. I can assure you of it. You 
have told me a thousand times that you have kept 
nothing of the past but remembrances of your childhood 
and of your family. You have jealously keptas a treasure 
a ring, in which your mother had put a lock of your hair 
when you were so young you could only answer her by 
caresses. 1 wish to have this ring; give it to me— to me 
your lawful husband, now that in me is concentrated 
your whole family that you have lost. Give me what 
remains to you that belonged to your mother. 

She was about to rise, but pausing, "Later, " she said. 
" Why not now? 

" Dear, I always believed in the sincerity of your love. 
I inferred it from your jealous fears, and my only sorrow 
was in not being able to quiet your suspicions. All you 
have now told me certainly fills me with joy, but does net 



30 

at all surprise me. I was waiting that word which should 
take away all guilty from us; I was waiting because I 
knew you loved me, also because you are good and gen- 
erous. Listen, then: On the day of our marriage I will 
give you that ring, which I cannot part from except for 
the sake of him whom I love. This has fJwuys been my 
thought. On the happy day of our union I cannot put 
on my head the orange crown every bride is accustomed 
to wear in going to the altar. That ring is the only thing 
I have not given you. It will be my nuptial gift. " 

Julius would, perhaps, have insisted, but just at that 
moment Marion entered. She seemed disappointed. By 
means of signs, she made her mistress understand that 
she had not found the usual buyer and that consequently 
she had brought the tapestry back. 

"What is' the matter?" asked Julius, who had already 
noticed some of these signs. 

" Nothing, " answered Fanny, smiling. 

" Always some mysteries! " 

"No" and she embraced him. 

In order to change the course of Julius' thoughts, 
she added: 

" Have you pondered over all the obstacles to this our 
happy union? 

Before he had time to answer, a loud noise was heard 
in the street, usually so quiet. Julius ran to the window, 
and a few steps from the house he saw a fainting woman 
sorrounded by a crowd. lie immediately descended into 
the street in order to bring help, and a few minutes 
afterward he returned. 

" Strange," he said, "the horse of my cousin, Mrs. De 
Launay, who had gone to her business man to take an 
important document, has fallen, and although not wound- 
ed, the fright has experienced has caused her to swoon. 



31 

I shall go and see her home. Good-bye, darling, till 

to-morrow " 

Embracing Fanny, he quickly departed. Fanny went 
to the window to see him go. Julius dare not to look 
at her. 



m^^^^^ 



32 



II r. 



THE FRIEND. 

On the following day, while Julins was at Fannys' 
house, a scene was enacted in the street of Lille, the 
consequences of which might have destroyed all the 
projects of the two lovers. Mrs. Valabert had received a 
visit from the Countess of Septeuil, a lady of ancient 
nobility, immensely wealthy and in friendly intercourse 
with many persons having influence at court. 

The conversation between these two had been quite 
long. As this visit was a very important and not an 
ordinary one, the conversation, at the beginning cold and 
reserved, had gradually become lively and confidential, 
till both ladies, after a long diplomatical discourse, had 
thought it convenient to explain the cause which had 
brought them together. 

The interview had ended, and Mrs. Valabert was al- 
ready accompanying the Countess to the door of the hall, 
and the two ladies had reciprocally exchanged parting 
salutations, friendly, although full of dignity, when the 
arrival of two other persons delayed their separation a 
few minutes. 

One of the two comers was a gentleman of about forty 
or forty-five years of age, with an open face which ind- 
icated most splendid hsalth and complete absence of all 
sorrow. His manners were those of a man who, althousfh 
accustomed to mingle in high society, lacks grace and 
elegance of carriage. His prominent gray eyes express- 
ed a constant satisfaction and happiness. He ^held his 
head aloft like those who, proud of themselves, believe 
that they produce in others the same favorable impress- 



33 

ion they feel whenever they place themselves before a 
mirror. Mr. Saint-Gilles had left the army at the tim-e 
of the second restauration and thrown himself into spec- 
ulations, and, like many others, had succeeded without 
knowing what he was doing. Chance had made him a 
wealthy man and riches made him fat. The person who 
accompanied him was a young lady wlio may have bee-n 
about twenty-six years of age, and who appeared neither 
more nor less. Her features had kept the freshness and 
delicacy of youth, her smile was enchanting and all her 
movements were calm, pleasant and symmetrical. Her 
beauty was not that which strikes one at the first glance, 
but rather that which insinuates itself little by little and 
engraves itself on the heart, and which, though scarcely 
exciting desire, is yet the most certain 4;o retain the love 
it has produced. Her dark complexion was in strong 
contrast with her blue eyes and fair hair, but these almost 
sure signs of a passionate organization, i)i which are 
mixed two different and opposite natures, voluptuous 
languor and ardent vivacity, were belied by her quiet 
behavior and an expression of kindness. When she used 
to raise her eyes toward any person, one wt)uld say that 
she was looking for some grief to console, and would 
suppose that only the troubles of other people could ruffle 
the quietness of her soul. 

In spite of all these qualities, Adele D« Launay ha-d 
never been happy. At twenty-one she had married a man 
twice her age. Not having known love's infatuation, sh& 
had not -even had the opportunity of experiencing that 
quiet happiness which surely possesses a greater value 
end lasts langer. Her husband was one of those men 
without virtues or vices, whose irv€s- run from on^ 
project to another, planning schemes which are sooii 
given up for new ones; one of those incomplete natures 



without will or patience, that vegetate everywhere with- 
out bearing fruit. She had followed him to various 
cities where he had gone for foolish expeiiments or for 
industrial speculations, and the clearest and most evident 
result of all these journayiugs had always been the same, 
a loss of time and capital. Finally, after many j^ears of 
this roving existence, Mr. De Launay, almost ruined but 
not reformed, had been enticed in a new scheme which 
had allured liim on account of his remoteness and the 
probability of its success. With the remains of his 
fortune, he had laden a ship with goods which he intend- 
ed to sell in South America at fifty per cent, profit, and this 
time he had put himself at the head of the expedition, 
having agreed with his wife that she should remain in 
Paris while waiting for the £;-a/eons. 

Of her own dowry Mrs. De Launay had saved one 
hundred thousand francs, which her husband could not 
touch. Mrs. Valabert, her distant cousin, who had many, 
times good occasion to appreciate her, had requested her 
to come and reside with her. Adele had accepted this, 
offer, which, at the same time leaving her free and 
mistress of her movements, afforded her protection and 
^ home befitting her age and position, and she had now 
bp.ing residing in that house for six months. 

Saint-Gilles,' on' perceiving the Countess of Septeuil, 
assumed a more contented air, and his eyes were enabled 
to express something a little resembling thought. With 
an awkward and very evident intention of joking, he 
addressed a few complimentt to the noble lady, and con- 
gratulations upon Uieeting her at Mrs. Valabert's. On 
her jiart, Adele De Launay had contented herself with 
boving to Mrs. Septeuil. As soon as the Countess had 
left, Saint-Gilles and the two ladies went into the parlor 

There Mrs Valabert addressed Adele thus: 



" Cousin, you well know our agreement, absolute and 
full freedom as well for you as for me. This morning 
you wished Saint-Gilles to accompany you while shopping 
at several places. Be pleased now to give him back to 
me as we have need to converse together. " 

" Since you wish to be alone, I will retire. " 

" Before you go, " replied Mrs. Valabert, " allow me to 
repair an involuntary negligence. Yesterday I was 
somewhat ill, this morning you went out early without 
my having the pleasure of seeing you. I hope that you 
have not received bad news?" 

"None, my dear cousin," answered Adele, '' and I 
thank you for the interest you take in all that concerns 
my welfare.'* 

After these remarks, she retired to her own apartments. 

Saint Gilles gazed after her, saying: 

" That crazy fellow, De Launay, is happier than he 
deserves to be. Here is a woman who loves him in spite 
of all his extravagancies. If he would write her to join 
him, I would not be surprised if she should at once obey. 
AVhile he could have quietly enjoyed such a treasure at 
home, he become a merchant of Cologne water and 
English soap in the other hemisphere. There are some 
persons, who although their heads were full of eyes, would 
not be able to see clearly. " 

** Yes, " answered Mrs. Valabert, sadly, " there are 
passions impossible to be explained; some spurn virtue,, 
some do not know vice. " 

"Oh!" said Saint-Gilles, who had already without 
ceremony seated himself in an easy-chair, his legs crossed 
and his body reclining, " what has happened? Did the 
Countess departed disappointed? " 

"Yes; friend. " 

''AThyso. " 



" Because there exists an obstacle Avhich you. do not 
know, and which we cannot say that Ave M-ill' be able to 
overcome. " 

"What is it?" 

" It is just to speak to you of it, and to ask your advice 
that I have wished to be alone with you." 

Mrs. Valabert brought another easy-chair near Mr. 
Saint-Gilles, and sat down beside him. 

Before we let them begin their confidences, it is ne- 
cessary to explain briefly the friendship which existed 
between these two persons. 

Saint-Gilles was a bachelor. Mrs. Valabert was a 
widow, but (which is rarely the case) their relations were 
truly based upon pure and holy frietldship. Julius' mo- 
ther was virtuous not only on account of her training but 
by nature. Cold and calm in her youth, she had never 
admitted the possibility of a fault, and the love which 
enraptured the senses, love without marriage, was cons- 
idered by her a chimera or a vice without excuse, like 
hypocrisy, falsehood or theft. 

Saint-Gilles had received many favors from Mrs. Vala- 
bert, for which he had shown himself very grateful. He 
continued to visit the widow, and little by little made 
himself indispensable to her. He had no equal in 
bestowing trifling attentions and in busying himself 
with other people's affairs. Always at the disposal of 
whoever needed him, he collected rents, canvassed for 
mortgages to place money, arranged preliminaries of 
marriages and took upon himself all sorts of troubles and 
every kind of work. In short, he was a most clever and 
indefatigable ^^ factotum. " 

"Friend," began Mrs. Valabert, "to you I am indebt- 
ed for the acquaintance of the Countess of Septeuil. You 
were the first who thought of this marriage, so advantag- 



37 

eous for my son. The Countess gave her consent to this 
union, and has given me the assurance that her daughter 
made no opposition to it whatever. With sorrow I have 
discovered a secret which for a long time I had suspected, 
namely, that Julius had a guilty connection with a person 
whom he is passionately in love with. " 

" Oh! " replied Saint-Gilles in a very easy way, " at his 
age that is a very common occurrence." 

" Yes, hut he will not part with this woman. " 

" Poll! Julius is a young man of spirit, who will not 
sacrifice his future to a caprice. Be at ease. Besides he 
knows of the negotiations begun with the Countess and 
he has already seen her daughter. It is true that he has 
not consented openly, but neither has he refused. If he 
had not had good intentions, he would not have allow 3d 
us to take these steps, since at the point we have now 
arrived, it would be almost impossible to break them off 
without a strong and reasonable motive. " 

" We have not positively consulted him, and have on^y 
taken his silence for consent. Perhaps Julius does not 
«ven know that the Countess came this morning to visit 
me. Do not be mistaken about the character of my son. 
I can and do know it better than you. He is a man who 
waits for the last moment, not only to make a definite 
decision, but also to communicate to you his resolve. To 
display courage, he needs to feel danger. He loves me, 
it is true, but although his love is sincere and deep, he 
will not yield to me. " 

"And who is the object of his passion?" asked Saint- 
Gilles, *' perhaps some common woman? perhaps an 
-actress? perhaps a dancer? " 

" W^hoever she may be, she must be a woman of loose 
habits, " replied Mrs. Valabert, " as I have been told she 
is young and beautiful; she belongs to an honest family, 



38 

and unhappily it seems that she has received a splendid 
education. She is a piano teacher, by name, Fanny " 

"Fanny Dusmenil?" 

" Exactly that. Do you know her? " 

"Certainly. For some time she gave lessons to my 
little niece. Beautiful creature! a beautiful morsel, I 
swear to you. What eyes! What beautiful hands! and to 
all that she adds talent, great talent indeed! Julius saw 
her at my sister's house. One day she sent a message 
notifying us that she could not come any more. No one 
could guess the reason of such a resolve, but now it is all 
explained. Upon my word, nobody Avould have surmised 
it. With her modest demeanor, she must be an old fox. 
She must not be allowed to go umpunished. Where does 
she reside? " 

" Near here, in Furstemberg street, I believe. " 

" I will run there at once, " said Saint-Gilles raising. " 

" Dear friend, I never doubt your interest in me and 
in all that concerns me. Before taking any steps, I must 
ask another favor. Instead of going to see this young 
girl, who would surely complain of it to Julius, exagg- 
erating your words, would not it be better to address your 
remarks to my son? I hesitate to speak to him. He is 
no more a boy; I cannot scold him, and in spite of my 
love, I could with great difficulty decide to be a witness 
to his blindness and to hear him praise the woman who 
deceives him, for how we can believe in the virtue of a 
woman who even for once has forgotten her duty? " 

"It was my intention," answered Saint-Gilles," to 
employ the quickest means to cut the evil at its root; but, 
as you wish it, I will speak to Julius. It is impossible 
that he will not recollect himself. Did they tell you that 
he intended to m-irry her? " 

" No, but if perchance he were about to do so?" 



39 

"OL! before all," r3plied Saiiit-Gilles\' I' We must not 
trust this princess. I pretend" to be a good physiognomist, 
and yet I would have given her the communion without 
confession. We have no time to lose; all these creatures 
have a fondness for marriage. I hope Julius will opeii 
his eyes. He is in love. Wery well; he will fall in love 
with his bride, who is also a beautiful woman, and after 
eight days he will think of the other no more. After all," 
we have a last resource to dry the tears of his Ariadne. 
What does she wish for? A position? money? we will 
give her half of what slie asks, showing ourselves good 
and setting the mutter conveniently. AVith twenty to 
twenty-five bills of a thousand each, all will be made 
right. With this sum we shall send this young lady to~ 
her penates and her music with variations, and after a 
time she will marry some young artist, whom she will 
make happy. I will take it into my hands and then 
who shall know? Though I am not severe like you, I 
think it really very probable and possible that she may 
deceive Julius. I can easily believe that a woman, if 
mistress of herself can very well avoid lovers, but as soori 
I know she has a lover, I am justified in supposing hei" 
with two lovers. We shall see; and while we are await- 
ing the result, try to cheer yourself. " 

The conversation was pursued a little further, and 
Saint-Gilies persuaded Mrs. Valabert not to alarm herself 
for the time being, and to continue the negotiations with 
the Countess. His arguments with Julius did not secure 
the result desired. The reader will excuse us for not 
repeating here the very excellent reasons he presented 
and urged in speaking to Julius; it will be enough for him 
to know that none of them were received with favor.. 
Saint-Gilles belonged to that class of persons who believe 
in being useful to others by giving them advice for which 
they have not asked. 



40 

The haptpy t>f-aa<|aillity of that family was completely 
changed. J^kis^ fearing his mother's tears and prayers, 
avoided her presence as much as possible, an«l, when 
with her, kept a cold silence. VtUnly Adele De Launay 
endeavored t© enliven the conversation. She showed 
herself more tha^ usually good, thoughtful and amiable, 
but no explanation had ever taken place in her presence; 
neither had she been admitted into confidence, so that, 
granted that she did not know the cause of this coldness, 
yke was in no way authorized to provoke a decisive 
explanation. Julius, on the other hand, had completely 
concealed from l^'anny the opposition he experienced 
from his mother, whose mouth-piece was SaintGilles. 
He strengthened himself in the resistance, always fearing 
the moment when in a irrevocable manner he would be 
obliged to signify his firm resolve. He hoped that Saint- 
G-illes, acknowledging the inutility of his attempt and 
tired of the struggle, would cease his annoyance. 

In this false situation many days 2>assed, but the 
catastrophe was destined to come. One morning Mrs. 
Valabfrt's house took on the appearance of festivity; the 
servants were going and coming with a busy air. Julius, 
on returning home at noon, noticed all this stir, and 
was at a loss to know how to account for it. Just as he 
was going to e^sk the reason of it, the door of the parlor 
m which he was, opened. Mrs. Valabert was coming 
from her apartments, dressed and in the act of going out. 

Stopping before her son, she said to him: 

" I am very glad to meet you. I hope that you will 
have no engagement for this afternoon, and if you had 
intended to go out, I beg you to sacrifice this evening to 
me, as I am expecting a numerous companv." 

" Whom? " 

'• Many friends ajuong whom will be the Countess of 



41 

Septeuil and lier daughter. "— " Madam ! " interrupt- 
ed Julius. 

But his mother, who had spoken these words almost 
hurriedly, jis c*ne wlio could see no reason for objection, 
had already crossed tlie parlor. A servant came to tell 
her that the carriage was ready. 

In his first emotion of surprise, Julius had let her go. 
Immediately he understood that, by disposing of him in 
such a way, his affectionate mother had made the last 
effort. Thus he would have been under the necessity of 
letting others believe in his silent approval, or by refusing 
to be present to break all the negotiations, which could 
V)e considered bad manners, and would have comproniis- 
ed even his mother. And yet this was the only course 
left to him. 

This elaborate snare, so easily to be avoided, in which 
they were trying to entrap him, was more unbearable 
than serious and strong obstacles. He had seated himself, 
pondering how to act. Julius thought himself alone, and 
was amazed to feel a hand laid on the back of his easy 
chair, while a sweet voice thus spoke: 

"You are sad, cousin; is it not true?" 

Julius turned and saw Mrs. De Launay gazing at him 
with interest. 

" How long have you been there? " he asked. " I do 
not remember have seen you come in. " 

" I was in your mother's room. I arrived just when 
she left the drawing-room, but lovers have neither ears 
nor eyes, and 1 am not offended at your absentmindedness. 
All your attention must be given to Her. " 

" Then you know all? " 

"Yes; this evening party had already been arranged 
four days ago. It is a little plot prepared by Mr. Saint. 
Gilles, to which my cousin has given her consent. Neither 
the former nor the latter will believe that your love is 
deeo and sincere. " 



42 

'* And you believe it to be so? " 

"I? I ought to have been a diviner, as neither you 
nor your mother ever spoke to me of it. All that I do 
know I have learned from your sadness and from some 
few words heard by chance or willingly listen to. " 

" If they had consulted you, what would have been 
your answer? " 

"I should have refused to enter this plot. " 

" Why? " 

" Because one cannot betray one's allies. " 

"Then you pity me^" 

" If I had not, would you see me here? " 

" Kind Adele, I am suffering; yes, I am unhappy. '* 

" And, nevertheless, you love and are loved? " 

" Without a shadow of doubt." 

" What else do you want? A happiness which only 
depends upon yourself! Listen to me: I always thought 
that women, better than men, know how to love, because 
when they feel a strong passion, they do not look at the 
difficulties and are ready to defy death, while you men do 
not know how to bear a moment of embarrassment or of 
shame." 

"You are right; 1 am feeble, and I fear to bring afflic- 
tion on my mother. " 

" Or, perhaps, to repent yourself some day? " 

" Oh! never, never! if you know her!" 

" Speak to me, then, with open heart. I fear that all 
that I am now to do or to say may be wrong. I ought to 
remain neutral. But a friend will be allowed to ask for 
your confidence, when another has taken upon himself 
the right of torturing you without consulting you. Answer 
me, then. Is she beautiful?". 

" Without her I cannot live." 

" She is beautiful, yes, without doubt, but I meant to 



43 

say remarkably beautiful -." • 

" More so than yourself, my cousin; " but he soon added, 
" at least I believe so " 

'* Are you sure of it? and do you not deceive me? Has 
she spirit? " 

" Very much indeed and, joined with simplicity, that 
spirit which comes from the heart, like yours, cousin. " 

" Pray do not use me as a comparison, " answered 
Adele smiling, " and I am not questioning you to hear 
her praises. After all, you love her, and this is the main 
point. Are you sure that she also loves you, and that she 
never loved another? Is she virtuous? " 

" He who would try to say the contrary must prove his 
word or I should have his life. " 

" Oh friend! if your heart would be completely free and 
you would be the absolute master in choosing a wife 
could you dare to hope to have in her united, talents 
spirit, virtue? and because you have been so fortunate as 
to find such a woman and to possess such a treasure, you 
spurn it! And what for? Julius search your heart. Have 
you never reproached her with the love you have inspir- 
ed in her?" 

" Can you judge me so unjust? No; Fanny, in my eyes, 
is the most virtuous woman in all the world. " 

" Marry her, then, and do not ask me for advice. " 

" I shall take advice only by myself, my good cousin. 
My present embarassment lies in finding a way to break 
this projected marriage." 

" It is your own fault. Why have you not spoken a 
month ago? 

" I am well decided not to appear this evening, but how 
shall I avoid a scandal?" 

" I do not see any way. The rupture ought to come 
from the Countess, not from you. Were I you, I would 



not worry myself until to-night. Yes, on my word. Who 
knows but some good angel will watch over you? Often, 
just when we feel very unhappy, we find ourselves near 
to happiness. Hope! these moments of tranquillity will 
be so many stolen from future grief, and perhaps even 
these last will not come. " 

Before Julius, who shared not this confidence, could 
ask her what cause inspired her with it, the drawing- 
room door opened and Mrs. Valabert came in. She had 
a serious and preoccupied mien, and was crumpling in 
her hand a letter which had arrived in her absence and 
which had been given her by tlie porter on h^r return. 

" My son," she said, in a voice which hardly concealed 
her emotion, " you are free and master of your evening. 
Lady Septeuil writes me that she ijs not able to accept 
my invitation. Send a servant to Mr. Saint- (tIIIcs, and, 
if he is at home, tell him to call as soon as possible," 
and she departed, murmuring a few words that her son 
was not able to understand. 

This second apparition, so different from the first, 
amazed Julius. Glancing at his cousin, he said: 

" Adele, what were you saying a little while ago; that 
the rupture ought to come from Mrs. de Septeuil? But 
this seems a true rupture; you, perhaps, were cognizant 
otit?" 

" I had hoped for it. " 

'* The angel wlio was wa,tching over me was then you? " 

" Hush! " said she, " be silent! " 

He replied in a low voice: '• But how it happened all 
this? Please explain yoursef, that I may be able to 
thank you. " 

*' What I have done is of little importance. 1 will tell 
you about it later, if you will be so good as not to reproach 
me with having guessed what you had not told me. Now 



45 

let us part — not a word more, not a, sign nor a look of 
intelligence. I saw you so unhappy, here is the excuse 
and explanation of my conduct; to morrow, or in a few- 
days, you will entreat your mother, and she, perhaps, will 
be moved by your prayer. Do not vaste your time with 
me, go to Her; go, friend, and love her always because 
she is worthy of you. Good bye. " 

Mrs. Valabert's pride had been offended by the action 
of the Countess; and the latter was too proud to retract. 
All the diplomacy of Mr. Saint-Gilles failed to bring 
about a renewal of the negotiations. Mrs. De Launay 
fearing sooner or later she might be involved in these 
family discussions, went into the country for a few days, 
to the residence of a friend of Julius' mother. 

Julius was not able immediately to obtain the consent 
he asked for. Every time Mrs. Valabert was moved by 
her son's prayers, Saint-Gilles, who had considered as his 
own business the rupture of this marriage, reproached 
her with her feebleness. Saint-Gilles had not been able to 
put in execution his first scheme of addressing himself 
to Fanny, because Julius was continually with her. Fi. 
nally frightened at the anxiety and agitation of her son, 
Mrs. Valabert yielded on condition that she should not 
see her daughter-in-law. Julius at about twenty leagues 
from Paris, owned a villa which was comprised in his 
father's estate. The interesting condition of Fanny not 
permitting him to present her in society, he had resolved 
to take her to this little country residence. In order to 
announce her the day fixed for the marriage and make 
known to her his last arrangements, he went, as usual, to 
the house in Furstemberg street. 

Occupied with his thoughts, he was walking rapidly 
Just as he was nearing the door of Fanny's house, he 
encountered upon a youn^ man issuing from it. While 



46 

ringing the bell, his heart was trobbing. He reproached 
himself for the injurious suspicions continually torturing 
him in spite of his love. On entering, it seemed to him 
that Marion was confused and that Fanny blushed when 
he narrated his encounter, but he ended by being asham- 
ed of his jealous suspicions, and soon restored by Fanny's 
tender and affectionate looks, he forgot all to think only 
of the near future which promised to be so calm and 
happy. The villa to which he intended to take his wife 
had not been inhabited for three years. It was necessary 
to put it in order. It was agreed that Julius should go 
alone and remain absent from Paris for eight days, the 
time to complete the preparations. 

From the moment when they had begun to love each 
other, this was their first separation, and although it 
would last no long, the parting was as painful as if they 
were never to meet again. 

On his return to Paris, Julius Valabert received the 
anonymous letter copied by Ternisien, the address of 
which, as stated in the first chapter, had been written by 
a different person. 



47 



IV. 



THE TRIAL. 

Seated in the same room where we saw her before, 
Fanny let her eyes sadly wander from the wdndow to the 
door, listening to every noise and showing in her features 
fear rather than hope. Do you remember with what joy 
she had been animated when Julius brought her the 
announcement of his resolve? Why, instead, we do find 
her so sad to-day? Because the nearer the time appoint- 
ed for her nuptials approached, the more she felt her 
heart oppressed by a fatal presentiment. Eight days had 
already passed since Julius' departure, and this absence, 
the first she experienced, had left her alone with the fears 
of her heart without defense, and at the same time expos- 
ed her to some intrigues which had poisoned her solitude. 

The day following the departure of Julius, a gentleman 
whom she remembered to have seen previously at the 
house of her young pupil, Miss Saint-Gilles, had called on 
her and without preamble or formality had spoken to her 
of the schemes of Julius' family, of the brilliant hopes 
destroyed by his love for her, of the grief that every one 
had felt and the pain with which they had consented to 
this union, and finally he mentioned a last hope founded 
on Far.ny's generosity, that she might persuade Julius 
himself to consent to what was wished from him. Saint- 
Gilles did not forget to adorn his speech with flattering 
words and praises: Fanny would be esteemed by every- 
body; no one would be surprised to hear that she herself 
learning of the existing difficulties, had sacrificed her own 
love to the future happiness of Julius; that all knew her 



to be so unselfish as not to hesitate before such a sacrifice. 
They knew also that she was so sincere in her love that 
she would prefer the interests of Julius to her own. All 
these things had been spoken cautiously but with a tune 
in which one could easily perceive the skepticim of a 
wordly man, ready to deny every kind of true and sublime 
affection. There still remained the last alternative, that 
of pecuniary compensation in exchange for so many 
destroyed hopes. Although Saint-Gilles had relied very 
much upon the slrenght of this argument, he dare not 
speak of it. Fanny's demeanor had made such an im- 
pression on him as to prevent him from uttering the 
words, ^'■pecuniary compensation. " Saint-Gilles took his 
leave without receiving a positive answer, but obtained 
from her a promise to let him know her decision. 

The following day, after a night of wakefulness and 
fever, she sent him a note containing these simple words: 
" Address yourself to Julius. " Thus the negotiations were 
sent again to the same field on which he had always been 
beaten. These attempts, this appeal to her generosity 
and this exaggerated picture of Mrs. Valabert's grief 
destroyed Fanny's confidence by showing the present 
full of struggles and dangers, the future dark and un- 
certain For the first tim3 she paused to ponder on the 
intrigues and plots of every kind which a powerful and 
also ambitious family might organize against her. She 
had been unable to give a very clear answer to Mr. Saint- 
Gilles, because she dare not to reveal to this railer the 
sacred motive which made it a duty for her to resist his 
insinuations. 

" If instead of this man, " she said to herself, "Julius' 
mother, with eyes full of tears, had come in person to me> 
I would have thrown mj^self to her feet and spoken thus: 
* Pity, and do not despise me. If it were only a question 



49 

of iwy happiiies, I would sacrifice it without hesi-tatitf^, 
if I had only to renounce Julius, although I love him 
with all the strenght of my soul, I would depart, I would 
hide myself, and neither you, nor he, nor any living 
person would hear of me again. Perhaps finally- he wouh'l 
be able to forget me and might some day be happy, and 
you enjoying his happiness, would think of me absent,, 
and in your heart thank me, and this thought will bring 
consolation. But, alas! if I should act in such a manner; 
another voice would rise to accuse me, a being dear to 
]ne whom I must love iis you, madam, love your son., 
would ask of me an account of a sacrifice which would 
deprive him of a name, of a family, of a future, and yoy^ 
yourself, who are so good, would you advise me to beconife, 
a bad mother?' " 

Carried away by hor grief for an instant, she thought 
of going to Mrs. Valabert, to declare all to her and place 
herself under her protection, but was prevented by shame. 
If she had been acquainted with Mrs. De Launay^ that 
friend so sincere and indulgent, whose generous act Jiilins 
had narrated to her, she would have confided in her and 
thought herself safe. Timidity detained her. 

Thus for eight mortal days, alone, a prey to her fears,- 
she saw no other help than Julius, who was absent, and 
whose weakness of character she dreaded. How many 
varied tortures aftlicted her mind, always disposed to 
exaggerate evill The humiliation she expected and^ the 
repentance that Julius would perhaps experience wheii 
his passion had abated, would leave him under the 
ascendancy of his mother. Perhaps, also, that jealousy, 
which he was unable to control, would, some day, bring 
him to suspect her who had not known how to resist hi^ 
seductions because, strange as it is, ladies are alway-s 
punished for their sins by the same persons for whose 



5^0. 

sake they sin, and who gather in the fruit of their crini3. 
" -rii this'manner, after the infatuation of her passion, 
Panuy was experiencing the first trial of life, and, instead 
of peace and happiness in her soul, she met doubts and 
f^ars at every step. 

As a last refuge, there remained to her the remem- 
hrance and thought of Julius. She plunged so deep into 
it' as to forget everything else. Had she been possessed 
of cooler blood, or, better, had she a more complete 
knowledge of evil and of the advantage that slander takes 
of every circumstances even the most trivial, she would 
have anticipated by her explanation the unhappy cir- 
cumstances which might cloud her reputation. She 
Vv^ould have felt the necessity of giving an account and 
explaining another mysterious visit she had received 
after that of Saint-Gilles. Her love made her forget all 
this, her only thoughts being of her Julius. 

At last, as we have said, the eight days of Julius' ab- 
sence were past. She was waiting for him, when she 
was aroused by a sharp pull at the door-bell. 
' " Here he comes! " she cried and ran to the door, 

Julius entered. 

Fanny's joy was of short duration; Julius seemed not 
the same man. His face was fearful pale, his eyes glaring, 
his lips trembling. She tried to speak, but courage failed, 
and in silence she stood gazing at him. Without utter- 
ing a single word, he shut the door and hurriedly crossed 
the room. Fanny followed him. 

Julius cast at her a dreadful glance, which seemed to 
penetrate her heart. One of his hands, placed under 
his coat, was agitated by a convulsive movement. With 
the other he seized Fanny by the arm, forcing lier to 
remain at his side. 

" What ails you? Julius you frighten me. "' 



51- ■ 

"Sit- down " he answereil with a gloomy ' and threaten- 
ing -voice. 

She sat down mechanically, subdued by that command 
and the gesture by which it was accompanied. ' "' ■/ 

Julius had made an unspeakable effort to overcome the 
emotion which oppressed him. He was no longer able 
to restrain himself. For a few moments he was silent, 
as if collecting himself to enjoy at his leisure the con- 
tinually increasing agitation of the unfortunate Fanny. 
Then, without even ceasing to stare at her, as if he wished 
to test her, he coldly and briefly said : 

." So then you have deceived me? " > . ' 

The poor girl, dumb with amazement, threw herself 
back. In her turn she felt the words dying on her jips> 
and her voice strangled in her throat. 

.Julius, who yet held her by the hand, and who saw her 
cast down by such unexpected accusation, shook her 
fiercely, and with a tune full of rage, continued: " Answer, 
answer me! " 

Vainly he endeavored to awaken her out of that dread- 
ful dream. She answered no more, inasmuch as the 
thought of being adjudged guilty had never occurred to 
her mind. All her preceding fears were justified; the 
intrigues, the plots she dreaded came to attack her. Fear- 
ful suspicion! Julius, perhaps loved her no more; Julius, 
conquered by the prayers of his family and in compact 
with them was now searching for a pretest for a rupture. 
A fearful abyss had opened at her feet, and she had fallen 
into it. Julius afraid of such an easy triumph, repressing 
himself, thus continued: 

"I shall try to be calm. Listen to me. This inter- 
view, perhaps, will be the last one between us; if you 
cannot justify yourself, it will be an everlasting rupture, 
l3ut I shall not judge without having first heard you. If 



52 

you have deceived mr?, you were very guilty, })ecause I 
had perfect confidence in you; I would have been asham- 
ed of watching your conduct. I loved you and to you I 
would have sacrificed all, — friends, fortune, mother — " 

Fanny made a movement. Finally she understood that 
she was accused of infamy and baseness. Blushes suffused 
her face and her cheeks, and when Julius asked her for 
an answer, she, this time purposely remained silent because 
she felt wounded in her virtue. 

Another pause followed, and Julius began: 

" Speak to me frankly, Fanny. Am I the only person 

who has put the feet iu this apartment? Think well. 

Have you received any other? 

" Ah! if that is the question," she replied, " yes; an- 
other person has been here whom you know, one of your 
friends, Mr. Saint-Gilles. " 

*' Saint-Gilles! " said Julius, completely astonished. 

" By his remarks he prepared me for this altercation. "' 

*' He? He must explain to me his way of acting. It is 
not of him that I am speaking; you do not speak to me 
of another man whose mysterious call has been revealed 
to me. " 

"Ah! " answered Fanny, "what has been reported 
to you? " 

•'This is what I have heard, " cried Julius, rumpling a 
paper which he took from his breast: It has been nar- 
rated to me that during my absence, the day before 
yesterday, in the evening, a young man wrapped in a 
cloak had entered your house, secretly introduced by 
Marion; that he had left two hours after; that this young 
gentleman had called often, though you had never spoken 
tome of it; lastly that he had known you before me, that 
he loved you, and that you were to marry him. Is all 
this true? It is necessary that I should tell you his name ?'* 



*' It is needless, " replied Fanny with dignity: " wlui 
gave you these particulars? " 

" This letter, " said Julius, "can you contradict it?" 

'• Wlio signed it?" 

" Signed it is not, but what care I if it tells the truth?" 

'■ An anonymous letter! " said she with contempt; and 
you trust it? A vily denunciation has in your heart a 
stronger influence than tlie thousand proof's of love which 
I gave you? You have for me so much esteem that the 
first comer can slander and calumniate me without being 
forced to answer for his saying? Ah! sir, what future are 
you preparing for both of us? " 

" Instead of accusing, defend yourself If the author 
of this letter has stated a falsehood, I will discovar him, 
and I swear by heaven T will punish him. But if, instead 
he has opened my eyes in regard to you and to a perfidy 
of which I would have been the victim, then he is a friend 
and it is my duty to thank him. Hear what he writes, 
and afterward tell me which name he deserves. " 

Opening the paper, with a chocking voice he read : 

^^ Sir: — A person who takes an interest in you, but who 
'' wishes not to expose himself to the hatred of any one, 
" thinks it his duty to take the veil of the anonymous to 
"enligthen you about a woman who is on the point of 
'' receiving your name. I do not know whether you 
" were the first in her affection, but I do know that you are 
" not the first that ought to have led her to the altar. A 
young man of her own place, unite;] to hei- by a fiiendship 
of long standing, was deeply in love witli her and he 
"ought to marry her. This union cannot be compared 
^' with the one you offer her. She had to renounce him, but 
"in doing so she has not ceasf^d to see him. At the 
■''beginning of your acquaintance, he pi-csented himself 
^' at her house. Afterward he called again; once you met 



54 

"li,ini before the door, and now that he is obliged to 
" depart, she has received his farewell. Your absence 
" from Paris favored this last meeting. Yesterday evening, 
"Mr. Ernest Gairal, with many precautions, entered her 
"house, and after two hours he left. " 

" Forever," exclaimed Fanny, rising, " forever!" 

" You then confess that he has come?" 
. , " Yes, please now listen to me. " 

" No, nothing! nothing!" replied Julius, raging. 

" Listen. One condemns a person, then, without 
allowing her to answer? laminnocent. I waswrongiu 
keeping it a secret because, of your jealousy, which I 
feared. This young man had been choosen for my 
husband by my father. For him I did not experience 
either hatred or love. 1 left my birthplace without even 
telling him. He came here once to remind me of the 
intentions of our respective families, and I did not give 
him any hope, although I did not then know you. He 
loved me, it is true; that he returned to visit me is also- 
true; and the day before yesterday he again returned. I 
did not conceal from him ni}^ love for you, or your gen- 
erous conduct, nor the destiny which awaits me. He left 
me resigned, and, as T told you, forever. For me, dear, 
this visit had no importance; it came unexpectedly, and 
if I have not spokento you before, it is only because it 
passed away from my mind. " 

This defence, so simple, had destroyed, little by little, 
almost all the suspicions of Julius. In proportion as she 
spoke, the confusion and agitation of his heart faded 
away to give place to the shame of having shown himself 
so cruel. Moved by the sincere tone of these explanations, 
he was already prepared to fall at the feet of that woman 
who had once more become his idol, when his eyes rested 
on the end of the letter, which he had not yet read. He 
wished for a final trial. , 



' 55 

" Forgive n'le, Fanny. I ask you a thousand pardoi:w5v. 
if I have wronged you or suspected you unjustly. My 
excessive love made me unjust. Be not provoked at iny 
anger. The secrets hidden by you may serve as an excuse 
for this moment of rage. Do you forgive me?" 

She placed one of her hands on her heart, and offering 
the other, which he covered with kisses, said: 

" Ah! Julius, what pain you have given me! I should 
never have thought I could suffer so much without dying.'' 
" Now, "he added; "as a guarantee of thisreconciliatioii^ 
give me the token which till now you have refused — the 
ring, the only souvenir of your mother. The more dear 
it is to your heart the more acceptable to me will tlie 
sacrifice be. " 

Fanny answered, smiling: " Have you forgotten what 
I have already told you? "Why this so earnest desire? 
And what high value could it have to you? " 

" Does it not contain the hair of my Fanny — hair taken 
Irom her head when a child? Do not refuse it to me, I 
entreat you. I know where you keep it. It is in a little 
casket at the bottom of the first drawer of this secretaire. 
Please give me the key. " 

His looks were always sweet and affectionate, but his 
voice trembled and had a strange tone of rage. Fanny 
perceived it. 

" Oh! " she said, "you are asking for your pardon. " 
She hid the key in her bosom and withdrew a few steps. 
"I do wish it, " cried Julius, giving free course to the 
anger he had restrained with so much difliculty. "I do 
wish this key, I need it, even if I must wring it from you. " 
" Always suspicions. " 
" Always some mystery! " 

" Well, then, I shall disclose you everything. If tjil 
now I have refused to you to open my secretaire, j.z \7*3 



.50 

only'because in it you would find some accouiits, some 
documents which would have revealed to you that instead 
of living upon an income bequeatod fo me, as I always 
told you, I lived by my labor. I did not confess the truth 
to you,'biecause I was too proud to accept your gifts. Have 
. I committed a crime? and those who have written to you 
' will they yet maintain that I am a woman moved by 
interest? " 

. ''Then you could deceive me for so long a time, and 
you could repeat to me this falsehood so many times 
without my dectecting it, so great was the sincerity which 
shone in your face, so innocent was your mouth, as it is 
at this very moment, in which you are again deceiving 
me. " So saying, he wrong the key from her hands. 

Amazed by such violence, Fanny fell senseless into the 
arm-chair. Julius opened the secretaire^ then the drawer 
and the casket — but the ring was not there, 

" Ah! " he exclaimed, '' I was quite sure of it. " 

At these words, Fanny recovered her consciousness, 
s'a.n to the secretaire and also began to search. 

" My ring! my ring! " 

" Disappeared! " 

"Stolen!" 

" X'es, stolen, " repeated Julius, and violently seizing 
the gitd by the arm, he thrust the letter before her eyes 
and finished reading it aloud: 

"The proof, sir, that all the relations between that 
<■'• woman and her first love are not ended, the proof that 
'Hhey loved each other and that Gairal's departure had 
'*i*or its purpose only to facilitate an advantageous marr- 
"'iage, is in the fact that before they parted, she wished 
*'"*him to accept a family ring which had belonged to her 
"mother, which she jealously kept, and in which was 
"*'■ enclosed her hair. " 



.57 

" Well pursued Julius, '' Will you. deny it n^^^?■ 'Tlii« 
ring you had refused me; the key, too, you were refusing 
not^loiig ago. Knavery on knavery! Falsehood on false- 
hood! Treachery on treachery! 

" Marion, " cried Fanny. 
'■' Ah,' you well know that she is not at iiome. I alone 
will answer you. I curse you and hate the day in which 
r was acquainted with you. Farewell! farewell! Say to 
your lover that he can return. " 

In departing, he cast a last look at Fanny. She was 
lying on the floor immovable, pale in a state near to death 
He made a few steps to help her, but his feelings of anger 
and contempt returning, he called an old woman, her 
neighbor, and after pointing out to her the fainted Fanny: 

"Take care of that woman! "he said, and, throwing 
her a purse filled with gold, disappeared. 



^(^>^r3^^^ 



'58 

V. 

THE AUTOGRAPH. 

At the moment in which Romeo receives from the 
servant, Balthazar, the news of Juliet's death, he pronoun- 
ces these simple words: " Indeed! Now, enemies star-?, I 
challenge you! " and afterwards buys the poison. This 
deep grief, so parcimonious of complaint, impresses more 
than any exciting paraphrase. In fact, our nature usually 
takes interest in the doings of our fellows, whatever they 
aim at, and sometimes even when their sentiments and 
feelings are not in harmony with ours. This interest lasts 
while hope supports it and uncertainty delays the result, 
but from the moment in which his destiny is accomplish- 
ed, it is necessary that he in whom we were interested 
spare us his Joy or grief. A settled matter excites our 
attention no longer. We, too, will spare our readers the 
description of Julius Valabert's mental sufferings. 

After the dreadful scene we have narrated, we will pass 
over an interval of eighteen months, and we shall find him 
one year married, and at the moment in which the wife 
opening the door of his office, with a sweet and timid 
voice says to him: 

" Excuse me if I am intruding, but the person you send 
for has arrived. Do you wish to receive him now, or do 
you prefer he should wait. " 

Julius had married his kind cousin Adele De Launay 
Very few words are necessary to explain the change which 
had taken place in the respective position of these two 
persons. 

As a result of the rupture with Fanny, a violent fever 



had endangered the life of Julius. He would certainly 
have died without the constant care of his mother and 
Adele. Friendship and love had restored him to life. 
A deep sadness and protracted languor followed his de- 
lirium; without opposition he allowed himself to be car- 
ried to the country, where, according to the doctor's opi- 
nion, the pure, fresh air would restore his energy, and 
where the sight of new objects would cancel, little by little 
the remembrance of the sad event. In company with his 
mother and cousin, he went to the neighborhood of Lyons. 
There was a moment when they thought to have the 
company of Saint-Gilles, but the presence of this gentle- 
man was obnoxious to Julius, who did not doubt tliat the 
anonymous letter was his work, although inwardly he 
sincerely thanked him for having enlightened him. All 
that reminded him of the infamous treachery, caused 
painful and grievous emotion. Perhaps in his heart, he 
had flattered himself with the expectation of receiving 
a letter from Fanny, in which she should try to justify 
herself. However, he had not heard from her; all those 
who approached him kept silent, and Julius, blushing 
and ashamed of his weakness, dare not to confide in any 
one of his friends. 

Thus he left Pnris hiding in himself the duml) grief 
which gnawed within, too offended to think of a recon- 
ciliation and to deeply in love to unbosom his gr'ef to 
others. 

But every hour which passes pours a drop of balm into 
the most painful wound, and every day which dies takes 
away one of the thorns which make the heart bleed. 
During the first few months passed in the country, Julius 
felt no sensible improvement. The days were excessively 
hot and the sultry nights were too oppressive for his 
feeble constitution. The flowers, which were in all their 



00 

beauty, their perfumes, the golden fruits of the earth, tlie 
plains covered with verdure, Uio tliick foliage of tlie 
woods, that powerful genu of life which abundantly 
circulated in nature, all these beauties of the sky and the 
earth, oppressed him as a stinging irony, as a coniplete 
contrast with the desolation and the dryness of his soul, 
in which nothing grew except a bitter agony which he 
persisted in keeping hidden. However, little by little, 
flowers withered, autumn appeared with its train of 
shadows and air filled with dew, with its pale sun shin- 
ing through fogs as a smile through tears .Julius felt his 
intense grief partially dispelled. The sadness and mourn- 
ing of the objects which sorrounded him harmonized 
with his own sadness and invited liim to confidences. 

His solitary walks Avere replaced by others with his 
mother and Adele De Launay, and between the latter and 
himself a greater intimacy began. The woman who had 
once foreseen his desires, who had shared his hopes, ought 
she not naturally to be the first to console him? Only 
with her he dared to speak of Fanny. In these long- 
private conversations, which became of daily occurrence, 
in those prolonged communings by the fire in the even- 
ings, she narrated by what means she had caused the 
rupture of his marriage with Miss de Septeuil; how 
without anyone knowing it, an act justified by her int- 
ention, she had in her hand the thread of that intrigue; 
how by means of suspicions dexterously insinuated she 
had prepared the Countess for the first refusal; how, at 
the same time, having learned that Miss Septeuil, with 
no love for Julius, only obeyed her mother, taking ad- 
vantage of that first moment of spite, she had advised a 
prior suitor to renew his courtship. From confidence to 
confidence she ended by revealing to him a secret that 
she had concealed from all in order not to add her own 



61 

griefB to those which Julius already suffered. She had 
not wished to take for herself any of the consolations due 
to him. Mr. De Launay had died, and that sad intelli- 
gence had been received by Adele a little before the time 
when Julius had thought he was betrayed in his love. 
Julius was never tired of admiring such inexhaustible 
kindness, always ready to sacrifice for others. This 
treasure at this moment belonged to no one. Their in- 
terviews becoming longer and more frequent, and without 
having lost any of their intimacy and pleasure, were 
sometimes timid and embarassing, bolh for him and for 
lier. Fanny's name was no longer so frequently spoken, 
and, one evening Julius holding liis cousin's hands and 
fixing on her glances which troubled her, asked her if 
she would finish the work begun, and reconcile him com- 
pletely to life, granting the happiness he had never known. 
" We have both suffered, " said he. " Married to a man 
who was not able to appreciate you, you had patience and 
resignation: I, on the contrary, experienced violent and 
strong passions. To day, both free, — you from an im- 
posed chain, I from my error, — we feel the need of a quiet 
and sincere affection. Be mine, if not from love at least 
from pity, and I will be grateful to you for it. " 

Without answer on her part two months later Adele 
had married her cousin. 

The year following their marriage was spent in the 
country. Mrs. Valabert's death strengthened these ties. 
At the beginning of the winter, they returned to Paris. 
Julius resumed his occupation, for a long time int3rrupt- 
ed, and searched for relief from those sorrows of which 
the stings had not yet disappeared, in work rather than 
in the i)leasures of luxury and of the world. Saint-Gilles, 
during; this lono; absence of Julius, had resumed his old 
habits. He rarely called en him, and obedient to Adele's 



G2 

prayers, had- alvvays avoided spealciiig of^ the doleful past. 
i-To the work which had usually kept Valabert busy, had 
been added others, viz: the putting in order of family 
]>apers, the examination of the titles: of succession, the 
copying of letters and other papers. ■ He had, therefore, 
given orders to search for an honest and reliable man to 
whom could be entrusted a little work, and as we have 
said at the beginning of this chapter, his wife had an- 
nounced to him the arrival of that man. 
■■ To the question, " Do you wish to receive him? " Va- 
labert had answered with an affirmative nod. 

" Dear, " added his wife, " would you permit me to 
remain present? " 

** Without doubt; but what inspire you with this desire? 
It. is only a question of figures and documents, and in 
idl probability the conversation will be very wearisome. " 
" I spoke for a moment to the person introduced to you, 
^nd, if I do not mistake, he is an original lull of many 
pleasant fancies. " 

" Wery well ; judge him for yourself. Let him come in. " 
An old man presented himself, and his entrance 
justified the words of Mrs. Valabert. Arrived on the 
threshold of the room, he saluted them in an awkward 
way and with an exaggerated politeness. With both hands 
he removed an old hat, the edges of which were broken, 
and by a hasty movement of his head in bending it to the 
knees, he had caused to descend over his forehead the 
torn eilge of a dirty silken skull-cap. As if this ridi- 
culeous salutation were not enough, he repeated it three 
times at intervals, each time advancing two steps, without 
])erceiving that Mrs. Valabert and her husband were mak- 
ing useless eff'orts to restrain their laughter. As soon as 
the poor man had ended his genuflexions, he raised him- 
self up, casting around timid and humble glances. 



Suddenly liiri face assumedane-cpression of astonishment, 
and he stood before Valabert with open mouth and dis- 
tended eyes. Adele watched this inexplicable pantomime, 
when her husband, his thoughts returnin,:^- to by-gone 
times, exclaimed: 
; "Ternisien!" 

" Mr. Valabert! " answered the ex- professor. "How! 
you have had the kindness to remember my face? Have 
yet not entirely forgotten him who taught you the prin- 
ciples of an art which is now spurned, and of which 
perhaps I am the last representative? The times were 
very different when I used to come to give you lessons in 
St. Honore street, where your father lived. It is now 
eighteen years since I saw j'ou last, and I remember you 
always because you were kind and affectionate to your 
professor. I beg pardon, madam, for thus speaking in 
your presence, instead of waiting the permission of your 
husband, but thinking of that time, I seem to become 
younger. Look here, madam, you must not pay attention 
to my dress. This morning, in order to come to you, I 
have brushed and darned these rags as best as I could, 
but they, I know very well, are old and in bad shape. On 
entering I felt ashamed, and if you had not been present, 
I am almost sure your servants would have thrown me out 
like a beggar. Then I become confused and made very 
humble salutations that I might be forgiven my presence 
and intrusion into these rich, splendid apartments. Once 
I, too, knew how to present myself properly, madam, and 
I have punished many young ladies, rich and bsautiful 
like yourself. " 

Adele smiled kindly, Avhich finally put Ternisien at 
Ills easy. 

" Truly," replied Julius, " I am happy and glad to meet 
you again. 



64^ 

*• And 1, too," aiis\yered Ternisien. " Well I can H«e 
you are not changed; always good and without pride. As 
you take away all iny embarrassment, I shall ask per- 
mission to sit near the fire while you explain how I may 
serve you. It is long since I have seen a fire in my room 
excepting the blaze of the candle, and that only when, on 
account of economy, I do not go to bed at twilight. " 

So saying Ternisien took a chair and seating himself 
without ceremony, totally forgetful of manners, extended 
his feet on the fender, while, with his two elbows resting 
on his knees, he stretched out his meagre aud wrinkled 
hands toward the fii-e, 

Julius Valabert, who found his professor as he had left 
him, simple and fall of kindness, was gazing at him with 
true pleasure. 

'' Poor Ternisien ! "he said to him. *'I see that you 
have not been happy, but as you remember me, why have 
you not called on me? In every case, you Avould have 
been kindly received. " 

" Yes, perhaps I was wrong; but you, used to riches, 
know one side of almsgiving. To give when one wishes 
it and can afford it, is very easy, but to ask is more 
difficult. " 

"After all, I thank chance that has at last united us 
again. Here is some work for a few weeks, and I hope 
you will not refuse that I shall fix the price myself. " 

" We will fix it together. The little talent w^hich I have 
is completely at your disposal. " 

" You, perhaps, live near here, as I had ordered that 

before looking elsewhere they should search in our ward. " 

" Yes, I live in alittle room at No. 4 Fursteraberg street." 

Ternisien did not perceive the profound impression 

his answer produced on Julius and his wife. A pause of 

a few minutes followed, taking advantage of which Vala- 



65 

"bert and Adele, in whom these words had awakened 
the same remembrances, exchange between themselves 
furtive glances. 

" Let us see, Mr. Julius, how I can serve you. " 
Valabert placed before the eyes of Ternisien a file of 
papers which were to be copied. Having agreed upon 
the price, Ternisien was ready to depart, but Julius de- 
tained him. He feared to question him, and at the same 
time he wished that he would speak. These two words 
" Furstemberg street, " resounded in his ears. If his wife 
had been absent, lie would have directly questioned his 
old professor, who lodging in' the same house where he 
had ceased to go, would perhaps been able to explain what 
to him had remained a mystery. The presence of Adele, 
who seemed very little disposed to leave, obliged him to 
take a roun(l-al)out turn of words. 

" What have you followed during the last few years?" 
" A trade which did not suit me, " answered Ternisien. 
" I had lost my professorship at the University, my pupils 
had left me, although I was still capable of teaching. 
Certainly my hand was heavier, but the principles, you 
know well, were good, and experience supplies the lack 
of the happy liveliness of youth. However, all this was 
of no use; I was obliged to resign and become a public 
writer. For some years I worked dissatisfiedly with my 
vocation. Often I had the intention of giving it up. A 
circumstance which, in spite of myself, poisoned my 
conscience: a letter that I had the weekness to copy for a 
miserable recompense, decided me. " 

" A letter? " asked Julius with indifference. 

" Yes, an anonymous letter which contained very heavy 

accusations. First of all, you must know that I always 

nourished a profound contempt for all denunciations of 

that kind which one has not the courage to sign, and it 



66 

seemed to me that trutli ought not to have any fear of 
expressing itself openly. Is not this your opinion also, 
Mr. Julius? " 

" Yes, " answered lie, who, entirely absorbed in Tern- 
isien's narration, no longer observed his wife, and 
continued: 

" How could that letter have made such an impression 
on your mind as to put in execution such a resolve?,' 

" Because that letter might compromise very much 
and perhaps even kill an innocent person as well, as it 
denounced a great perfidy." 

" Why, then, " interrupted Mrs. Valabert, who from the 
face of her husband had guessed what kind of feelings 
he was endeavoring to conceal, "why did you not accept 
the second supposition, which was as probable as the 
first one?" 

Ternisien raised his eyes to the sky and heaved a deep 
sigh 

" You are right, madam, f/ien T could, but to day " 

'* To-day?" repeated Julius. 

" I cannot any more. My fear Avas a presentiment. 
Alas! it was soon realized in the most painful and cruel 
manner. " 

" Of whom did that letter speak? " 

" Of a young lady. " 

" And to whom it was addressed?" 

"■ I was never able to learn. The boy who brought the 
letter to be copied had orders to have the address written 
by another hand, iind was unwilling to tell me whether 
he had received the^e orders from a gentleman or a lady. 
Such a great mystery troubled me. This was not the first 
time that I had felt scruples about letters of that sort, but 
they had never made such an impression upon me, and I 
reproached myself continually with an action so simple 



07 

and natural belonging to my vocation, as if I had com- 
mitted a crime. At that time they were making objec- 
tions to my remaining any longer in tlie court of the 
Holy Chapel. I left the shop and renteid, at No. 4 Furs- 
temberg street, a little room vacated by an old woman. 
The first two nights passed in this, my new lodging, were 
calm and silent, but in tlie midst of the third one I was 
awakened by sighs and smotliered moans, and from time 
to time by distressful cries, the effects of pain. The fol- 
lowing day it was said to me that the little apartment 
near the room I occupied was inhabited by a young lady 
at the point of death. ■ 

" iV few days had passed when one day, returning koine 
at about three o'clock, I was surprised to see the door of 
tlie same apartment wide open. I looked. into the first 
room, — nobody was there, — lio one in the second, — everj''- 
where the same dreadful silence. I entered the last room, 
and there, lying insen^-sible ou her bed, I saw a young 
woman whose features, altliough altered by protracted 
illness, showed that slie must have been beautiful when 
she was happy. 

" I followed the first impulse of pitj. I replaced on 
the pillow the head which liang off tlio bed. I caused 
her to inhale from a smelling bottle whicli I found on the 
mantel and tried to restore her to consciousness. When 
she opened her eyes, ashamed to be alone in a room with 
a young woman, I apologized and hurriedly retired. The 
porter, whom I questioned, told me that on the same day 
her servant had left her. Without in<juiri)ig what were 
hor means, I ran for and brought witli yne a nurse to 
watch over her. Hapi)i!y, there was some gold in her 
house. Miss Fanny Dusmenil was her name; I had for- 
gotten to mention it before. " 

At these words Julius rose. 'J'ernisif-;), interrupting 



68 

Ms iiari*ative, 8aw him, petlej subdued, ^n'd llis /ace wet 
with tears, Julius turned toward his M^ife,and seeing heir" 
trembling with a' profound grief, piciuiVd' in her i"ac<e> 
going near to her, took her liand saying: 

''Adele, my tears, which were flowing withc^t my own'^ 
will, are no offense to you. Please retire to j^our apart- 
ments, I entreat you and forgive me. " 

She lowered her head and went away, saying in a low 
voice, but with an- energetic tone of despair: 

" Well, I know that you yet love her. " 

Ternisien had risen completely dumfounded and wlien,- 
af'ter the scene which had taken place, he found himself 
alone with Julius, he not longer knew whether he ought 
to remain silent or to continue. Valabert, now free from 
restraint, came to him and inquired: 

''Is she dead? Is it true?" 
> ''Yes." 

,[■ "And her child?" 

i- ' " Dead also, before the mother. But how do you know?" 
% '^'I know; wliat matters the rest to yau? And tell me, 
was she calumniated?" 

" Yes. " 

''Who told you?" 

" Herself, and then T have other irrefutable proof. " 

"What is it? ".. 

'•Listen. Often, in day lime, I used to inquire about 
her lieaUh. Her agony lasted long and I had lime to win 
her confidence. J. used to pass days and nights at her 
bedside, and cared foi- her as if I had been her father. 
She narrated to me her story. She told me how, on the 
day preceding ker^iyiarriage, her lover had come like a 
raging maniac; how, crediting an anonymous letter, he 
had accused her. i Fancy my surprise and consternation 
when handing me that letter, I recognized the one I liad 



m 

copied. She swore that notwithstandiug a-ppearances' 
which seemed to condemn lier, she was innocent; and I, 
who had a wrong to repair, hastened to ask the name of 
him who had heen deceived hy such infamons denuncia- 
tion, and who would pvobahly have time to acknowledge 
and repair his fault. She obstinately refused to tell it. 
'I wish,' she said, ' that this fearful misfortune might 
have been delayed a few raonihs, that my cliiM could have 
been borne alive, and then I would have forced myself 
to beg in his behalf the })ity of the father; bvit now I am 
alone and near to death, of what use it will be to impor- 
tune him? Although for me, who loved him so much, 
his forgetfulness may be p;iinful, 1 prefer lot him forget, 
rather than perhaps to awaken in him a useless remorse 
by letting him know how lam dying.' Her strenght 
visibly left her. One evening the nurse and I were at 
her bedside awaiting the fatal moment. For more than 
an hour she had not spoken. I have always retained the 
minutest details of that last evening, and a common and 
childish fact, to which death has imparted a lugubrious 
and dreadful character, will never be blotted from my 
memory. Near the head of the table a candle was burn- 
ing. I tried to increase the light, but as my eyes were 
darkened with tears and my handtrembled, I extinguished 
the candle and we were plunged into darkness. ' It is 
perhaps, the eternal night, ' she uttered witli feeble voice. 
These were the last words she pronounced. " 

Julius had hidden his face in his hands and tears flowed 
through his fingers. Suddenly, as if he would have kept 
a doubt for his only excuse, he approached X^rnisien and 
said to him: 

'• You told me that they had calumniated, her, but you 
did not give me the proof, which you say is irrefutable, " 

'' She had already justified herself of luivi^g, received a 



70 

young man. Wliat condemned her was a ring which she 
was accused of having given as a love token to her suitor. 
HTow it had disappeared she was not able to explain. Well, 
it had been stolen by her servant, a certain Marion, bribed 
with gold to steal this ring from the secretaire. The same 
day that for the first time, I entered Fanny's room, 
Marion, owerpowored by remorse, had gone, after having 
made a confession of the crime witl^out naming the per- 
son who had induced her to commit it. She had placed 
such a written confession on the bed of her mistress while 
she was asleep, not having had the courage to accuse 
herself or to aslc forgiveness. Fanny refused to search 
for her. Reading this letter, she had fainted, alone, 
without help, and chance brought me there and happen 
to see that confession. " 

" Enough, enough! " said Julius, " I received that 
anonymous letter. Fanny is dead, — I murdered her. Who 
then, around nte, has plotted such a barbarous scheme? 
Did Fanny confided it to you?" , 

"She named no one. She only spoke to me of propo- 
sitions made i^f her by a friend of her lover's family. " 

"Saint-Gilles! Ah! him, him! — my mother's confidantf 
Must I believe that they acted in concert, and that after 

having given her consent to it? Oh! no, no! he acted 

alone. Now I remember wliat he used to tell me. Him 
him alone, I accuse." 

"If you were calmer, " said Ternisien, "I would give 
you the proof you need — the copy of the letter. " 

"Have you it?" 

'• I have' kept it. The boy who brought it to me had 
received the order to destroy it, i)ut as he did not know 
how to read, I, instead of the copy, tore up another piece 
of paper, witliout his noticing his substitution. This copy 
must be at home.'" 



71 

"To-morrow you will bring it to me; no, even to night 
— now — I need it. Let us go! " 

Noticing the convulsive joy which spread over the 
features of Julius, Ternisien repented of having confided 
such a thing to him. 

"It is difficult to find it immediately, it is necessary 
that I should search for it. Perhaps it exist no longer. 
However, by no means will I give it to you unless you 
first tell me for what purpose you intend to use it. " 

" I would have a proof, nothing else. " replied Julius, 
" a proof which would give to me the right to spurn the 
author of that letter. " 

" All right; I shall leave you now, and to morrow will 
bring it to you. T hope to find it. " 

Evening had arrived. Ternisien took leave of Julius 
and returned to his room very much confused. He had 
no trouble in finding the letter. He thought it right to 
take precautions against the youth's anger, and his peace- 
ful character made him believe contempt to be a sufficient 
vengeance. Valabert, who could not believe in such 
simplicity, exclaimed: 

" He will not give me this proof, but do I really need it." 

An hour afterward, a servant went out from his palace 
with three letters. Two of them were addressed to friends 
of Julius, the third to Saint-Gilles. 



72 



VI. 



THE REVERSE OF THE CARDS. 

Nearly twenty minutes after Ternisien had entered his 
room, lie heard a knock at his door. This noise inter- 
rupted the search he was already making among a bundle 
of papers to find the autograph he had promised to Julius 
the following day. As he did not expect visitors, and es 
iu his pre-occupation he had not heard the front door shut, 
so at first he thought the noise was caused by the wind 
swinging an open window in the stairway, and, therefore, 
without further notice, hd pursued his work. After a 
moment, bethought he heard a friction which ascended 
and descended along the door as if produced by a hand 
which searched in the darkness for the string of a bell, a 
thing completely unknown among Ternisien's furniture. 
The knocking was repeated a little stronger and with 

greater energy. 

" Who is there and what do you want? "asked Ternisien. 

He received no answer, but the knocking was re|>eated. 
" Come again to-morrow, " said the good man, alarmed 

at such persistency, and fearing to be the victim of some 

snare. " Come again to-morrow; I am already in bed and 

have no light. " 

Unhappily, the candle, the light of which was seen 
through the cracks of^his door, belied his words. 

" Open the door, please, " asked a sweet and trembling 
voice; "you have nothing to fear from the person speak- 
ing to you. " Ternisien decided to open the door. 



73 

A veiled woman quickly entered the room. She seemed 
a victim of the greatest agitation, and when slie raised 
her veil to hreathe at ease, the old professor uttered an 
exclamation of surprise on observing the change which a 
few hours had produced in her features. 
" Close the door" said she. 
Before obeying, Ternisien cast a glance at the staircase. 

"Alone? you are alone, madam! " 

" Nobody knows nor ought to know of my visit to your 
house. Swear to me, sir, that if you should be questioned, 
you will not reveal that I came her' . " 

" Madam," replied Ternisien, still more amazed by the 
visit and by the mystery that this lady put in it, "madam 
it is not customary for me to pledge myself so easily to 
such oaths, which sometimes be;ome painful and difficult 
to keep. When you will have the kindness to explain the 
causes which brought you here, I will try to make you 
the promise you ask. " 

" I understand your prudence, but have no fears, the 
secret I ask is more necessary to me than (o you. Be 
yourself the j udge. " 

She cast her eyes around the room, and, after a few 
minutes, added: 

"Here we must talk low, must we not? Others can 
hear what is said. " 

" Yes, madam, it was in this same room that, without 
caring for it, I heard the smothered moans of the unhappy 
Fanny. You were not in the parlor when I finished the 
narration of that very sad story?" 

"Yes, yes," interrupted Adele with an abrupt and 
agitated tone of voice, " I know that t/tat Fanny is dead." 

"After my departure M. Valabert had the time to 
tell you?" 

'' I have not seen him since. " 



74 

" Yet he is ignorant that you have come to see me? " 

"He is." 

" But, madam, if this evening he should discover 

your absence? " 

"This evening? — 0, this evening he will not think of 
Avhatmay I have done. Now he does not think of me 
any more. " 

In spite of his want of penetration and his absolute 
ignorance of passion, Ternisien began to guess the secret 
grief which thus changed the features of Mrs. Valabert, 
and gave to her eyes that insane expression and to her 
voice that strange inflection. He recollected the tears 
Valabert had not been able to hide from her, and with 
what words he had entreated her to retire. Jealousy was 
gnawing her heart, but he could not yet guess the motive 
which had brought her to his lodgings. 
She motioned him to sit down beside her. 
''Have you kept the copy of that anonymous letter?" 
Ternisien stared at her with astonishement, not know- 
ing whether she was questioning, or affirming a fact well 
known to her. 

" You have kept it " she continued; to morrow you are 
going to give it to my husband. Do not try to deny it; 
from the next room I heard all, I know all. Even when 
your voice or his had not reached me, my gaze would 
have pierced through the thickness of the walls and guess- 
ed your words from the simple movement of your lips. 
You must give me the copy of that letter. " 

" Madam, 1 promised to give it to your husband. " 
" To him or to me, what matters it to you?" 
" If you are here with his consent. " 
•* To-morrow you will write him that you have lost that 
paper, and he will believe it. Have you not already made 
its existence doubtful ?" 

" Indeed, I fear I have told the truth. " 



/D 



'' No; at the beginning ycu quite assented that it was 
yet in your hands, and you have begun the search. I 
will have that copy. Give it to me, sir; sell it to me, ask 
for it whatever price you will; you are poor and I can 
enrich you. " 

Speaking so rapidly as not to leave him time to answer 
she had opened her satchel. 

Then she added: "Here are four bills of a thousand 
francs each; these are not enough? — I know it — this is 
what i had in the casket. I will give you more, much 
more; I will treble the sum — twenty thousands francs — 
and 1 have jewels — here, take." 

Her color, before pale, had returned, her hands with a 
movement so rapid as hardly to be followed by the eyes, 
emptied the satchel. A pearl necklace, precious stones, 
diamonds, rings, her own ear-rings, in a twinkling of an 
eye, were thrown upon the knees of Ternisien. 

The poor man, astounded, contemplated her. On the 
flaps of his ragged coat was a sum tenfold larger than he 
had before possessed in all his life-time, and this unex- 
pected fortune was given him without reckoning; yes it 
was his own. It was enough that he should extend his 
arm and shut his hands to become the master of it. But 
such were not the thoughts in Ternisien's mind. Between 
the wealth he had never known and the misery which 
was shortening his life, in that honest heart was no place 
for speculation, however excusable it may be. With 
trembling voice and tears in his eyes, he addressed 
Mrs. Valabert. 

"Are you then very unhappy?" 

"Yes. very unhappy," she answered, "and it is in your 
power that 1 mny be so no longer; you can give me peace 
and insure my happiness. Do you accept it then? " 

" The recital of that st(.ry has awakened in your husband 



76 

the remembrance of a former love. Is it not true? I ought 
to have perceived this and broken it off when he entreat- 
ed you to go out of the room; I ouglit not to have re-opened 
a wound yet unhealed. Ypu must forgive me, madam, 
the evil that I have unwittingly done you. I had pres3ut 
in my memory the death of that poor woman, who was 
an angel of virtue — [ could swear it, — and who has been 
so basely calumniated. If you had know her as I did, if 
you had heard her protest her innocence, you would not 
have required this irrefutable proof to have been con- 
vinced of it. But forgive me, madam, if I again afflict 
you in speaking of her, and forget what I learned but a 
few minutes ago, namely, that love is jealous of a rival 
who does not even exist any more. You are afraid that 
your husband would become attached to that souvenir, 
and that at your side he would remember her whom he 
loved. How the possession of that letter could make you 
happy is what I am not able to understand. What in- 
terest causes you to wish so nrdently for it as to be ready 
to purchase it with you own fortune? " 

Whether Adele had not a satisfactory answer ready or 
whether the emotion by which she was agitated was too 
strong, she remained silent. 

Ternisien continued: 

"When I saw that Mr. Julius wished for that letter, I 
immediately told him that perhaps it would be impos- 
sible for me to find it, because I was afraid that, recog- 
nizing the handwriting, he would have gone to ask satis- 
faction of him who had written it. He has re-assured 
me. What ought I to suppose, now that I see you troubled 
by such a fear? " 

" Well, yes, I fear that he may expose his life," an- 
swered Adele, as if the last words of Ternisien had 
given her the excuse she had been searching for. "Your 



77 

friendship for him has siii'mised the misfortune which 
my love tries to prevent. That is why I come here at this 
late hour, and why I beg you not to speak to any one 
of my visit. [ know, — do not ask how I know, — the 
person who wrote that letter; my husband, too, will recog- 
nize tlie handwriting; they will fight, be suy'j of it; perhaps 
he will be killed. — Twice I will lose him on account of 
that unhappy woman. Give me that letter — let me 
destroy that proof — and when he has only suspicions; 
when the guilty one is able to deny, and, therefore, to 
refuse to fight, then I wi^l be happy or at least at ease 
abont my husband's life. This letter, I ask for it upon 
jny knees. " 

" Rise, madam, " said Ternisien. " I am too sorry for 
what has happened not to give you back your tranquillity. 
The oath you ask from me, I give you willingly. I will 
hide your visit from Mr. Valabert, but take this money 
again, take back these jewels; I will not accept them. In 
returning you this letter, I intend only to repair a wrong- 
done and not to give you back a proof. " 

In so speaking, Ternisien returned to Mrs. Valabert the 
bills and jewels she had handed him. He went to the 
table on which some papers were scattered, searched a 
little and afterward returned towards Adele. Seeing the 
yello\v i)^iper he had in his hands, she sprang and seized 
it with a convulsive movement. While she was reading^ 
a strange change was taking place in her, a change which 
only the wish to prevent a challenge by destroying that 
proof could not justify to eyes more expert than those of 
Ternisien. In her joy was something of frenz3^ One 
would have said that of the two opposite natures existing 
in her, the most violent — for a long time briddled by an 
iron will — had finally burst forth and removed all obstacles 
rerflowed by her violent passions. Her features, the 



78 

mirror of a new soul, seemed to have assumed another 
character. She was no more the timid, submitting re- 
signed, suppliant woman, but a lioness which roared 
while devouring her prey. As if her hands were not 
sufficient, she tore the sheet with her teeth, and then, 
gathering up the pieces, burned them in the flame of the 
candle, one by one. In proportion as they were consumed, 
her eyes shone and followed the writhings of the flame as 
if they were the sufferings of an agonized victim. As soon 
as the fire had devoured all, she dispersed the blackened 
ashes which flew around her with a puff. 

" Nothing more" she cried. "Behold every trace has 
disappeared! This letter never existed. I am saved!" 

In her delirious joy, she twisted her hands, laughing 
and crying at same time. She threw herself upon the 
neck of Teroisieu before he was able to express his 
wonder at such unaccountable exuberance. 

"To you I owe my happiness, "she replied; "I will 
never forget it. You refuse my gifts but come to see me, 
sir; as I have told you, my fortune is yours. I have your 
own word that you will be discreet: is it not so? Good-bye. 
Do not accompany me; I will find my way. The important 
thing is that I do not stay here any longer. " 

She openetl the door, rushed to the staircase, and despite 
the darkness, so nimble were her steps that Ternisien 
scarcely heard the noise. The sti-eet door was shut,, 
Ternisien placed himself at, the window and by the un- 
certain light of a street lamp saw her turning a corner 
through the snow. 

For some time the old j»rofessor remained thunder- 
struck at what had happened. A thousand different ideas, 
whirled in his poor head. The thought of evil was the 
last one which could enter his mind, but, upon thinking 
of the ofFeis he had refused, it seemed to him that if he 



79 

liad accepted them it would have been a heavy burden on 
his conscience, and that he would have been oblio'ed to 
return the gifts. He wrote to Mr. Valabert that all his 
researches had been useless; that for a long time he had 
kept that paper, but that it existed no longer. Then he 
went to bed, but was unable to sleep or to banish the 
suspicions which incessantly presented themselves to 
his mind. 

Mrs. Valabert had returned home without having been 
even inquired for by her husband in her absence. Durino 
the night, no noise troubled the quietness of the house. 
At dawn the following morning, Julius aroused from the 
table where he had spent the whole night in writing. He 
re- read and sealed some letters. A very long one was 
addressed to his wife; another also of several pages con- 
tained his last dispositions, and was to be given to the 
notary who had his fortune. 

His wife's room was separated from his own by a 
smaller one, the door of which opened between the two 
divisions of the library. He directed his steps to that sile, 
and listened for a few minutes. All around was still 
" She is asleep, " he said; " I can go out, and if Heaven is 
just I shall return here without troubling her rest. In 
two hours all will be ended. He or I. Let me go. " He 
wrapped himself in a cloak, took the box which contained 
his pistols, and softy turned the key in the lock. 

At the same time, the door opened from the outside 
and Julius found himself face lo face with his wife who 
was pale, troubled and with a countenance which testified 
that she, too, had been awake all night. 

Surprise nuule Julius draw back. Adele entered, shut 
the cabinet door violently and, without asking or giving 
explanations, took away the cloak and snatched the pistol 
box froua her husband' s hands. 

" You were going out to fight," she said. 



<so 

Julius scarcely recovered from his emotion, replied: 

** I must be second for a friend. These pistols are for 
him. Adele, do not be afraid, but let me go. " 

"Oh! you cannot deceive me," she said; "you are 
going to fight. " 

"Adele!" 

" No useless words! no false oaths! You go to fight. " 

" To fight? Why? and against whom? " 

Against whom? Against him who wrote that anony- 
mous letter and whom you think you know. Why? Be- 
cause you wish to avenge the death of whom you always 
thought. I know it, I tell you. Does the heart need to 
be taught that is forsaken? Does the jealousy need to be 
enlightened? Did I not see you yesterday, while that man 
was speaking, forget that I was there, — I, a poor, forsaken 
woman, — and only recollect it to pray me not to trouble 
your grief with my presence? And because I retired you 
thought I had not heard your sobs, or the questions you 
asked, or the resolution you made? Julius, dare you 
repeat to me that you are not going to fight?" 

He turned his eyes toward her, and making an effort, 
he replied with a grave and slow voice: Adele, it has 
always been my sad fate to put to a trial your inex- 
austible kindness, which made an angel of you. Once 
you alone rendered justice to that woman whom you now 
detest on account of the title of my wife. Later, when I 
was very near dying, you again consoled me; for almost 
two years you sorrounded me with attentions, and 1 swear 
to you, without that unforeseen revelation which threw 
me suddenly into the past, no moaning or sorrow, or 
remembrance would have found place in my heart. Try 
to find in that virtue which no other woman equally pos- 
sesses, the necessary strenght to bear this last blow. Yes, 
I will no longer deceive you, I go to fight. It is not a 



81 

question of love, as no vengeance can give life again to 
her who no longer exists, but the infamous person who 
calumniated the woman you yourself once defended, must 
receive the price of his falsehood. To-day, to-morrow, 
twenty years from now, so long as my hand can hold a 
sword or direct a ball through the heart of an adversary, 
I will demand satisfaction for that vile conduct; I will, 
avenge Fanny's death, I wished to avoid meeting you, 
A dele; I feared your tears, your pains, your reproaches, 
but my last thoughts were for you. There, on the mantel 
piece, is a letter I wrote you, in which I bade you the 
last farewell. Receive it now, since a fatal chance has 
brought you across my path, and do not try to detain me. 
My resolution is taken. It is a reparation that I owe her; 
and in risking my life, I expiate, in my opinion, my 
credulity and the error I ought to have repulsed far 
from me. " 

Adele had remained before him dumb, with a fixed 
gaze and clasped hands, but when she saw that he again 
prepared to leave, she seized him violently by the arm, 
and exclaimed with an accent of subdued rage: 

" Then I must again resign myself to be patient? This 
everlasting duty! For others, the passion, the heart which 
burns and confides itself, — for me the coldness of marble. 
No, no! this must not be so! He asks me for another 
virtue, while I — God! I beg thee to restrain the passion 
which was ready to overflow. Let not the secret of my 
heart come to my lips. Seal my mouth, and restrain my 
voice before it shall narrate what I know. Let this 
blindness which betrays me depart from me,' and give me 
back my former strong will. " 

*' Adele, what do you mean to say?" asked Julius, 
"Whence this delirium? " 

•• Must I even explain to you the cause of my grief? 



82 

Do you thing to deceive me? Was that woman, then so 
beautiful that the simple riemembrance of her is stronger 
than your love for me? In what way she loved, to love 
you more than I do? You do not know, Julius, how, I 
love you. You have only known in me a timid, reserved 
woman, whom a simple glance was sufficient to make 
happy, but I was waiting only for a single impassioned 
word, for a worm caress, to attach myself to you, to love 
you — not as a wife, but as a lover. Oh ! tell me that you 
were ignorant of these transports, of these secret desires, 
of that love which dare not to burst forth, but which to- 
day made me fall at your feet, confounded, suppliant, mad? 
Is it not so? You will forget that woman for me, who 
entreats; who, crying, kisses your hands, your knees. 
Yes, she was beautiful; but I ? — I, too, am beautiful; you 
have told me so too often to ignore it, and happiness will 
make me yet more beautiful; and you will look at me 
with pride. Yes, she was innocent; and, am I guilty in 
loving you? As she died,I will die too, if you forsake 
me. Do you then desire to kill us both?" 

Julius was moved, but not persuaded. He felt how" 
legitimate was Adele's sorrow, and how strong, to cause 
her to speak in such an infatuated way, so destitute of 
modesty. Her words affected his ears, not his heart, — 
since the preceding day his heart had been wholly ab- 
sorbed in the remembrance of Fanny. Freeing himself 
from his wife, he made a few steps, as if to go out. 

'* So you will go, you will leave me? all that I have said 
has been useless to detain you?" 

" I must go. " 

" You will not return here unless avenged or dead!" 

"Rightly!" 

"And during your absence T, who know all, will cry, 
tear my hair, strike my forehead against the wall^and 



83 

all that cannot detain you? On the field, facing your 
adversary, nothing can affect you? nothing will prevent 
your heart beating or your hand tr^rnbling? This is 
what is in store for me: You, if you. come back, will re- 
turn to cry for her beside me, or be brought here a corpse, 
or dying, and I shall cure you and restore your life to hear 
you repeat the name of Fanny. Oh! see, Julius, do you 
know that yon will drive me mad? that 1 would prefer to 
see you dead rather than alive? But you will not depart 
from hence — you will not fight. — Who is your adversary? 
Who killed your beloved? Saint-Gilles; it is not so? " 

" Who else could have done it? " 

" Aiid if he refuses to fight?" 

" He will not refuse; 1 have his answer already. " 

"His answer to an insulting letter. Yet one does not 
risk his life for an insult that could be repaired. If he 
refuses to fight; if he tells you that he did not write 
that letter? " 

I will tell him that he is a coward; I will take him by 
the throat with one hand and with the other I will slap 
his face. " 

"But then perhaps, he will kill you; and yet — he did 
not write that letter. " 

"Who did then?" 

•' Some one that you cannot strike — ^some one that does 
not wish for your death." 

" Adele! " 

" Some one who embraces 3^our feet; a woman whom 
jealousy made guilty, and who speaks now on account 
of the fear of losing you. It was I Julius, " 

''You?" 

At such a fearful revelation, JuliuS. r'emained as if 
striken by a thunderbolt. 

" Von" he repeated after a few minutes._ ....... 



84 

'I Yes, I," she answered, trying to seize liis hands, 
which he drew back. He was looking at her with amaze- 
ment and terror. He was taken with dizziness in meas- 
uring that profound falsity and the abysses of that heart, 
— a burning volcano covered with snow. Finally he 
exclaimed: ** What had that poor thing done to you? Oh! 
ilf you have spoken the truth, do not approach me hence- 
forth. I would feel only pity for you, but you excite 
my horror. " 

" Julius, you ask what she had done to me? But I loved 
you from the first day I saw you, and she also loved you. 
Do not ask me how I happened to be acquainted with 
Ernest's visits. I was jealous, and gold bought me all 
tlie secrets I wished to know. It was I that caused the 
letter to be copied with all tlie precautions Ternisien nar- 
rated. Yesterday I received from him and burned the 
paper written by my hand. I bought Marion, and for me 
she stole the ring whose disappearance was to serve as a 
proof against Fanny. That is what I did, and it seems a 
dream. I cannot believe it myself. My reason is wander- 
ing, my head is feeble as my body. — AVhy have I spoken? 
Oh! yes, I remember, because you were going to fight 
with Saint-Gilles; because you were going to risk your 
life and I desired to save you. " 

"Have you yet that ring which Marion gave you? 
Answer, answer! Give it to me. " 

" I have it no more. " 

" Give it to mel " he repeated with a fearful voice. 

" Julius " she replied, I have it no more. Your looks 
affright me; your voice makes me tremble. Have you 
no pity for me?" 

"Had you pity for her? " 

" Always her! " 

" Do you not remember that she is dead, and died 
murdered by you? Pity for you? Never! " 



85 

" I, too, Lave suffered. Was I not jealous? Am I not 
yet so? Have I not suffered when victim of a love vvhicli 
could cause me to lose all modesty, I saw you goino- out 
to meet her? Have I not silently concealed my tears? 
Have I not sighed every night? Mute and impassible in 
appearance, have I not staggered at the' noise of your 
footsteps, at the sound of your voice, and, when your hand 
touched mine? And during two years what has been my 
lot? By day Fanny occupies your thoughts, and often 
even at night in your dreams I have heard her name. 
Did I complain? And to-day, because the fear of losing 
you has made me speak, fool that I was, you reject me 
without pity. Your eyes have not a single tear for my 
sufferings, your heart has not an excuse for my fault. She 
could have died; she! you [had loved her. What would 
become of me if you will not see me any more? A word 
only for pity; not a word of love. Now you cannot speak 
it; I know it, and you would make me so happy. No, no! 
it is not that which I ask of you. Only let fp.ll a look 
upon me as formerly, as yesterday, and I will leave you 
in peace. You will think of her, you will cry for her, and 
1 — when your eyes shall be dry, I will return to you, I 
will kneel and ask your pardon. Oh! my head burns. A 
word, only a word, or I shall die! " 

She had approached him; he pushed her back again. 

"Infamous one!" he exclaimed, " if you yet have it, 
give me that ring. " 

" What will you do with it? " she asked raising her head 
and regaining an energy inspired by despair. 

" I would in your presence cover it with kisses and let 
you know once again, before we part, how I love her who 
iiadit. " 

"To part? Oh! Julius, you defy me? You believe me 
feeble and under your feet. To separate? But I am your 



86 

wife and will follow: you everywhere. What will you say 
to obtain that separation? That for jealousy I murdered 
your mistress? And the proof where is it? That letter 
was destroyed. I will answer that you were lying. Ah! 
you are without pity for me; you will punish me for my 
love for you with the remembrance you retain of the 
other and then forsake me. Well, then! As your wife I 
claim my right to remain with you; I will never leave. 
Do you understand? " 

" Madam, we shall not see each other again. " 

" We will see each other every day. Everyday I will 
importune you with my presence, with my love, with my 
distress and my jealousies. " 

"Be silent, madam, be silent!" 

'* No, I will not; neither to-day nor to morrow. Ah! 
you believe to have suffered by having lost your darling 
while another woman whose reason you have destroyed 
only receives from you the epithet of infamous and the 
threat of a separation. No, no! We are united to each 
other, and we will not be parted. Our existence will be 
a hell, but I am used to suffering, and I accept my lot. " 

Out of her mind, almost mad she had taken the arm of 
her husband, whose rage had been increased by such 
foolish provocation. A fearful expression of contempt 
and hatred shone in his eyes. The door of the room 
opened with violence, and at the same time three gentle- 
men entered. Julius made a last effort, and as he had not 
seen the presence of the others, raised his hand against 
his wife. She bent and fell, half fainting under the blow. 

"Gentlemen," said he, "the hour I appointed for our 
meeting is past. Without doubt you come to search for 
me. Mr. Saint-Gilles, I would not have delayed present- 
ing my excuses to you and praying to forget the letter I 
had addressed you. You can see the motive of my delay, 



87 

a conjugal scene, that T cannot hide like the others- 
Madam was asking for a separation which I was refusing 
to her; now I do not object any longer, and the testimony 
you will make in her favor will be the punishement of a 
brutality of which I feel ashamed, but of which it is too 
late now to repent. " 

He approached his wife, and in a low voice said to her: 
"■ To day you will lodge your complaint, otherwise be- 
fore these gentlemen I will dishonor you by telling what 
I know. " 



EPILOGUE. 

A month after that scene Julius and Adele were separat- 
ed. Two month later Julius mourned his wife, and the 
year was not ended when Ternisien in tears accompanied 
a funeral retinue that went out from the palace of the 
R2ie de Lille. 



POKMS € 



TRANSLATED FROM 



fr<iT)e\), Italian, a^d Spai^ist?. 



THIRID EDITION. 



91 
I. 

ON THE DEATH OF A GIRL. 



TO MY BELOVED MOTHER, FORTUNATA SORVILLO, 
WIDOW NOBILE, (nEE NANs5). 



Twelve springs had embellished her youth. Poor girl! 
she could have lived longer. To her eyes the future was 
opening full of delight, and her beautiful smile was pure 
as a golden ray of the sun. 

The life of this beloved one was the support of her mo- 
ther's soul. Innocence supports, while virtue defends. She 
was used to say, " This angel, one day, will become a 
woman," and this child was the living incarnation of her 
happiness. 

And thou hast lived twelve years embellishing all on 
thy passage, for twelve years thy mother found her bliss 
in the looks of thy charming eyes; for twelve years she 
had in her soul a continual happiness knowing that thou 
wast living. 

On the storm of life this girl was a calm, and in sorrows 
was a ray of dawn, and thou, alas! suddenly left us, leav- 
ing in our heart an everlasting sadness. 

Her soul was the human embodiment of the virtues, — 
the virtues, flowers of heaven, and perfumes of the elect. 
Afterward a child was needed in the bands of the angels, 
God* singled her out, Death came, and she was no more. 

The mother thoughtful, dishevelled, stayed there to 
look at the body, mute for ever. Alas! for a moment it 

*God wanted one more angel child, 

Amidst His shining band. 
And so He reached, with loving smile, 
And clasped our darling's hand ! 



92 

seemed that her life had disappeared with that of the poor 
girl for whom the funeral bell was tolling. Oh! I seem still 
to see this girl with her rigid, silent form, and her pale 
face! Oh! I see her cold and beautiful, lying in the bed 
as she were sleeping in an angelic dream. 

I see the light around her shed its reddish lustre in 
the humble and sad room. I yet see the friendly hand 
faithful to its duty, raise up and place her corpse in tlie 
coffin. 0! when this little body was brought to the church- 
yard, the mother groaned for her lost happiness. One 
would have said that her heart wished to follow the coffin, 
so many were the sobs which poured from her oppressed 
breast. The day was over, and gave place to another, — 
and yet the mother has always in her heart her daughter, 
and seems always to see her angel prostrated by death. 

Vainly slie is invited to many joyful feasts, — vain it is 
to persuade her of the necessity of forgetting, — vainly it 
is said that life has the same law for all, and that, by 
death, hearts are united to God. 

Vainly it is repeated to her that the flowers live only a 
season; that the beautiful dawn which awokes the morning 
cannot continue; that the children's souls, up in Heaven, 
live again, and at our own death they show themselves 
to us. 

The poor mother remains deaf to all these words. In 
vain every one tells her that her daughter is an angel, — 
that Death must extend its law over all, — that life is an 
exile in this world, — that all must change. Alas! her heart 
is broken, — her faith is extinguished. The mother cannot, 
and will not believe that she is dead; and continually 
with her tears asks for her daughter. She demands this 
girl, who still lives in her mind, with her songs, with her 
games, and with her gay smile. Sometimes her mind 
wanders for a moment, and it seems that her soul has 



93 

risen to the clouds to see if her time Imd arrived to depart 
far away from the noise. — Thus she lives amidst our 

liuman shadows, always faithful to her daughter, her 

dearest love. Many weeks I have heard her cry, and 
since I have been told, that she is still weeping. 

Brassenr. 



91 

ir. 



THE NIGHT OF OCTOBER. 



TO MY BROTHER, CAV. GIOVANNI SORVILLO. 



POET. 



The pain I suffered has vanished like a dream, and 
the faint remembrance it lias left I can only compare to 
those mists which rise with the dawn and disperse with 
the dew. 



MUSE. 



What ailed thee, my poet, and M'hat was the pain that 
parted thee from me? Alas! I yet felt its sad effects. 
What is this unknown grief I have so long bevailed? 



POET, 



It was a vulgar pain, well known to man, but when 
our heart is grieved, we always believe, poor fools that we 
are, that nobody before us has known sorrow. 



MUSE. 



Only the sorrow of a vulgar mind can be called vulgar. 
Friend, reveal this sad misery of thy heart; believe me; 
speak with confidence. The severe God of silence is one 
of the brethren of death; complaint brings consolation, 
and often a single word has spared remorse. 



POET. 



If I were to speak of my pain, truly I shall not know 
by, what name to call it, — if it be love, folly, pride, ex- 
perience, or if it could be of profit to anybody — but as we 



95 



are now alone, seated by the fire, I will tell my story. 
Take thy lyre and let my memory awaken at the sound 
of thy notes. 



MUSE. 



Before relating thy sorrows, Poet, art thou cured? 
Think, that to-day thou must speak without love or hatred; 
recollect that I have received the sweet name of consoler, 
and make me not the accomplice of the passions that 
have ruined thee. 



POET. 



I am so well cured of my malady, that sometimes I 
doubt if it ever existed; and where I risked my existence, 
instead of myself, I fancy I see the fa*e of a stranger. 
Muse, be without fear, we may both without danger con- 
fide in the voice of thy inspiration. It is sweet to smile 
at the remembrance of ills we might have forgotten. 



MUSE. 



Like a watchful mother at the cradle of a beloved child, 
I trembling turn to thy heart which was closed to me. 
Speak, friend, my attentive lyre already follows the accents 
of thy voice, and in a ray of light, like a beautiful vision, 
pass by the shades of other days. 



POET. 



Days of work, the only days in which I really lived. 
Oh, solitude thrice beloved! God be praised, at last I have 
returned to my old study! Poor room, walls so often de- 
serted, dusty chairs, faithful lamp! Oh, my palace, my 
little world, and thou young immortaL Muse, God be 
praised, we are again going to sing! Yes, I will open my 
soul, thou shalt know all, and I will relate thre the ills 



96 

that a woman can do, — for a woman it was, my poor friend, 
(alas! perhaps thou already knowest it,)a woman to whom 
I submitted as a serf submits to his master. Detested 
yoke, it was there my heart lost its force and its youtli, 
and yet near rny mistress I had fancied I shoukl find 
happiness. When in the evening near the brook we 
walked togheter on the silvery sand, when the white 
specter of the poplar showed us the road from afar, I can 
yet see by the ray of the moon, her beautiful frame lean- 
ing on my arm. Let us speak no more of it. I did not 
foresee where fortune would lead me; doubtless the anger 
of the Gods had needed a victim, for my attempt to be 
happy has been punished as a crime. 

MUSE. 

The image of a sweet reme;nbrance has just presented 
itself to thy thoughts. Why fearest thou to retrace its 
track? Young man if fortune has been cruel, do like her, 
smile on thy first love. 

POET. 

No, it is at my misfortune that I have acquired the 
right to smile. Muse, I said I would without passion relate 
my sorrows, my dreams, my madness, and that I would 
tell thee the time, the hour, and the occasion. It was, I 
recollect, a night of autumn, sad and cold, like to-night; 
the murmur of the wind with monotonous noise nursed 
dark cares in my troubled mind. I was at the window, 
expecting my mistress, and listening in the obscurity, I 
felt such a distress in my heart, that I conceived the 
suspicion of an infidelity. The street where I lodged was 
dark and deserted; some shadows passed a lantern in 
their hands. When the wind whistled in the half closed 
door one heard in the distance what seemed a human 



97 

sigh. I know not — to say the truth — to what sad pre- 
sentiment my restless spirit then abandoned itself. I 
recalled in vain the remains of my courage, and I felt 
a tremor when I hear the clock strike. She came not. 
Alone with downcast eyes I looked anxiously at the walls 
and the road; and I have not told thee what a senseless 
ardor that inco)istant woman lighted in my bosom. Her 
alone I loved in the world, and to live a day without her 
seemed to me a destiny more dreadful than death; still I 
remember in that fearful night I make a long effort to 
break my chain. A hundred times I called her perfidious 
and false, I reminded myself of all the ills she had caus- 
ed me. Alas! at the recollection of her fatal beauty what 
ills, what griefs were still unappeased? At length the dav 
broke. Tired with vain expectation, I fell into a slumber 
on the rails of the balcony. I opened my eyes at the 
rising dawn, and let my dazzled orbs wander around me. 
Suddenly at a turning of a narrow lane I heard on the 
gravel stealthy footsteps. It is she. She enters. AVhence 
comest thou? Last night what hast thou done? answer, 
what would'st thou? What brings thee at this hour? 
Whilst I alone on this balcony watch and weep, in what 
place, to whom did'sttliou smile? Perfidious, audacious 
woman, is it possible thou come to me? What askest 
thou? By what horrible thirst darest thou seek to draw 
me to thy exhausted arms? Go, retire, spectre of my 
beloved — return to the grave if thou art risen from it — 
leave me to forget forever the joy of juy youth, and when 
I think of thee to believe that I have dreamed. 

MUSE. 

Calm thyself; I cunjure thee. Thy words make me 
shudder; thy wound is near to re-open. Alas! it is very 
deep, and the miseries of this world are so long ere they 



98 

are effaced. Forget, my child, and from thy heart drive 
the name of that woman I will not })ronounce. 

roKT, 

Shame to thee who first tauglit me treachery, and 
maddened me with horTor and rage. Shame to thee 
woman of the dark eyes, whose fatal love buried in the 
shade my spring and my bright days. Thy voice, thy 
smiles, thy corrupting glances taught me to curse even 
the appearance of happiness: thy youth, thy charms re- 
duced me to despair, and if 1 no longer believe in tears 
it is because I see thee weep. Shame on thee! I was as 
simple as a child; like a flower at the dawn my heart 
opened to thy love — sure that heart without defense could 
easily be abused — but to leave it its innocence was still 
easier. Shame on thee! Thou wast the mother of my 
first sorrows, and thou caused'st a fountain of tears to flow 
from my eyes — yet it flows and nothing will ever heal it, 
but in that bitter source I will bathe, and I shall forget, I 
hope, thy abhorred remembrance. 

MUSE. 

Poet; it is enough. Though the illusions with the faith- 
less one lasted but a day, do not curse that day when 
thou speakest of her — if thou desirest to be loved, respect 
thy love — if the effort is too great for human weakness to 
pardon the ills that come to us from others, spare thyself 
at least the torments of hatred, and, in defau.t of pardon, 
let oblivion come. The dead sleep in peace in the bosom 
of the heart; and thus should sleep the feelings which are 
extino-uished; the relics of the heart have also their ashes. 
Do not let our hands touch these sacred remains. Why 
in this narration of a vivid suffering, wilt thou only see 
a dream and a deluded love? Does Providence act with- 



out a motive? or, thiukest thou that the God who struck 
thee, struck inadvertently? The blow of which thou corn- 
plainest has, perhaps, saved thee, child, by that thy lieart 
was opened. Man is an apprentice, and sorrow is his 
master, and no one knows himself until he has suffered. 
Hard is the law, but supreme, old as the world and the 
fate, that we must receive the baptism of misfortune, and 
at such sad price everything must be bought. The crops 
to ripen have need of dew. The symbol of joy is a broken 
plant wet with rain and covered with flowers. Did'st thou 
not say that thou wast cured of thy folly? Art thou not 
young, fortunate, well received by all — and those light 
jdeasures which make life desirable — what would'st thou 
care for them, if thou had'st not wept? When on the 
decline of day, seated on the hearth thou drinkest to li- 
berty, say, wuuld'st thou raise thy glass so heartily if thou 
had'st not paid the price of thy gayety? Would'st thou 
love flowers, meadows, the green shade, the sonnets of 
Petrarch, and the songs of the birds, Michel 'Angelo and 
the arts, Shakespear and nature, if thou didst not find 
some of these old sighs in them? Would'st thou under- 
stand the ineffable harmony of the heavens, the silence of 
the night, the murmur of the waves, if in some other 
places fever and sleeplessness had not made thee think of 
eternal rest? Hast thou not now a fair mistress — and, 
when on going to sleep, thou pressest her hand, the distant 
recollection of thy youth dqes not render her divine smile 
more sweet. Dost thou not walk together in the midst of 
flowering woods, on the silvery sand and in that palace 
of verdure? Does the white spectre of the poplar no 
longer show the road 1 )y the ray of the moon? Dost thou 
not see, as then by the ray of the moon, a beautiful form 
lean her hand on thy arm — and if in thy path thou 
shouldst meet with fortune, would'st thou not follow her 



100 

gaily singing? Of what then dost thou complain? Im- 
mortal hope is revived in thee by the hand of misfortune. 
Oh, my child, pity her, the unfaithful one, who formerly 
made the tears flow from thy eyes. Wherefore wouldst 
thou hate the experience of thy youth, and detest an ill 
which has rendered thee better? Pity her she is a 
woman and God made thee, when with her, guess by 
suffering, the secret of happiness. Her task was painful. 
She, perhaps, loved thee, but destiny willed that she 
should break thy heart; she knew life, and she made thee 
know it. Another has culled the fruit of thy sorrow — 
pity her — ^hersad love has passed like a dream; she saw thy 
wound, but could not close it. Her tears were not de- 
ceitful, and even though they were, pity her. Thou 
now knowest how to love. 

POET. 

Thou speakest truth. Hatred is impious, it is a shud- 
dering, full of horror — when that viper, curled up in our 
hearts unfolds itself. Hear me then, Goddess, and be 
witness of my oath. — By the blue eyes of my mistress — 
l)y the azure of the firmament — by that brilliant star which 
bears the name of Venus, and, like a diamond, shines 
from afar on the horizon — l)y the tranquil and pure light 
of the star, dear to the traveler — by the herbs of the 
prairie — by the forests — by the green meadows — by the 
l^owers of life — l>ythe productive force of the universe, I 
banish you from my memory, remains of an insensate 
love; mysterious and dark history which sleeps with the 
past — and thou who formerly hast borne the fame and 
sweet name of ]ny beloved, the instant I forgot thee for- 
ever ought also to be the moment of forgiveness. Let us 
pardon one another, I break the chain which united us 
before God. With my last tear receive an eternal adieu; 



101 

and now, fair dreamer, now, IMusc, to our own love — 
sing me some joyous song as in the first tinus of our 
bright days. Already tlie fragrant lawn feels the approach 
of the morning. Come to walk my dearest, and to smell 
the flowers of the garden; come to see immortal nature 
rise from the veil of sleep, we shall revive with her, at the 
first ray of the sun. 

A . Dt' Mnsset. 



102 

III. 
THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER. 



TO MY J)J:A11 sister JOSEPHINE CALLIGE, (nEE SOKVILLO.) 



At the time I was a school-boy one evening I remain- 
ed sitting up in the lonely hall; there came to sit at my 
table a poor child all dressed in black, who resembled me 
as a brother. His face was beautiful and sad; by the light 
of my lamp he came to read in my open book, leaned his 
forehead on my hand, and smiling, remained thoughtful 
until the morrow. 

When I was fifteen j^ears old I was walking one day 
with slow steps in a wood. At the foot of a tree a young 
man dressed in black came to sit, who resembled me as a 
brother. I asked him my way; in one hand he had a lute, 
in the other a bunch of roses; he gave me a friendly greet- 
ing, and, turning away, with his finger pointed to the hilL 
I had reached the age when we believe in love. One 
day 1 was alone in my room with the tears of a first sor- 
row. At my fireside came to sit a stranger, all dressed in 
black, w^ho resembled me as a brother. He was sad and 
thoughtful; with one hand he pointed me to heaven, and 
with the other he held a poniard. It seemed that he 
suffered from my pains, but he did not sigh, and vanish- 
ed like a dream. 

At the age when man is licentious, one day I raised my 
glass to drink a toast at a feast; opposite to me come to 
sit a guest, all dressed in black, who resembled me like a 
brother. Under his mantle he shook a rag of purple torn 
to pieces, on his head lie had a wild myrtle, his thin arm 
tried to press mine, and the drinking glass in my feeble 
hand broke as soon as it touched his. 



io;3 

A year after in the night I was on my krees at the be^l 
where my father had first died, there, at tlie bedside camo 
and sat an orphan all dressed in bhick, wlio resembled 
me as a brother. His eyes were moistened with tears; 
like the angel of sorrow lie was crowned with thorns, his 
lute w^as lying on the ground, his purple was the color of 
the blood, and his poniard was in his breast. 

I recollect him so well that always in every moment of 
my life I recognized him. It was a strange vision, and, 
yet, angel or devil, I have seen everywhere his friendly 
shade. 

When later, tired of suffering, I tried to exile myself 
from France to be born again or to die, when impatient 
of moving I went in search of the vestige of a hope, at 
Pisa, to the feet of the Apenines — at Cologne, opposite to 
Ehine — at Nice, to the declivity of the valley — at Floren- 
ce, in the midst of palaces— atBrigues, in those old castles 
in the midst of the desolate Alps — at Geneva, under the 
cedars — at Vevey under the green apple trees — at Havre, 
in front of the Atlantic — at Venice, on the arid Lido, 
where on the grass of a grave has just died the pale Ad- 
riatic; everywhere over this immense earth I have wan- 
dered, my eyes bleeding from everlasting. wounds; every- 
where limping weariness, dragging my fatigue after it, 
has dragged me in a hurdle; everywhere always thirsting 
for the knowledge of an unknown, I wentafter the shadow 
of my dreams; everywhere, without having lived, I have 
seen what I had already seen, the human face and its 
illusions; everywhere I wished to live; everywhere I wish- 
ed to die; everywhere I touched the land, always there 
came across my path a wretched man, all dressed in black, 
who resembled me as a brother. 

Who art thou, whom in this. life I have met in my way? 
Seeing thee so sad, I cannot believe thee to be my evV 



104 

genius; tliy sweet smile is full of infinite j^atience, and 
thy tears show so great pity. In looking at thee, thy sor- 
row seems brother to my pain, and resembles friendship. 

Who art thou? Surely thou art not my good angel. 
Never thou comest to advise me. Thou seest my mis- 
fortunes, and strange to say, thou indifferently dost let 
me suffer. For twenty years thou hast walked on my road, 
and until now I should not know how T ought to call 
thee. Thou smilest, without partaking of my joy. Thou 
pitiest me, without bringing me any consolation. 

This evening also thou hast appeared to me. The 
night was chilly. Alone bending on my bed I was looking 
at a place, yet warm with burning kisses, and was think- 
ing how soon a woman forgets, and feeling a part of my 
life pine away. 

I collected letters of past days, and tresses remains of 
our love. All this past repeated the eternal oaths of a 
day. I was looking at these holy relics which made my 
hand tremble. Tears of my heart, devoured by the heart, 
and which to-morrow will not be known, even from the 
eyes which have shed them. 

I wrapped in a coarse covering the remains of happier 
days. Methought that here below what lasts longest is a 
lock of hair. Like the diver who goes down in a deep 
sea I lose myself in such forgetfulness. On every side I 
revolved the probe, and alone far from the eyes of theworld 
I mourned o'er my poor burisd love. 

Already I was prepared to seal in black those frail and 
dear treasures. Already I was to restore it, and not being 
able to believe it, I doubt it. Ah! feeble woman, proud^ 
senseless, in thy spite thou wilt remember me. Why, why 
liest thou to thy own mind? To what purpose all this 
weeping, this heaving bosom, these sobs if thou dost not 
love me? 



105 

Yes thou lunguishest, tliou sufferest, thou weepest, but 
a dark shadow is between us. Well, then, good bye, 
adieu. Thou wilt count the hours which separate thee 
from me. Go, go, and in thy cold heart satisfy thy pride. 
I feel my heart yet young and strong, and many evils 
could yet find a place among the evils that you have 
caused me. 

Go! go! immortal nature had not endowed thee with all 
virtues. Ah! poor woman, who would be beautiful and 
not forgive. Depart, depart, follow thy destiny. I who 
love thee have not yet lost all. Throw to the winds our 
exstinguished love. Is it possible? Thou whom I loved 
so much? If thou wilt go, why lovest thou me? 

But suddenly in the darkness of night I see a form 
cross the room without making any noise. I see a shadow 
appear on my curtains; it comes and sits on my bed. 
Who art thou, pale face, sad portrait of myself dressed in 
black? What wilt thou, wicked bird of passage? Is it a 
dream? Is it my own image that I see in the glass? Who 
art thou, ghost of my youth, pilgrim whom nothing could 
tire. Tell me why I find thee on the shadow everywhere I go. 
Who art thou solitary visitor, assiduous host of my pains? 
What hast thou done to be condemned to follow me 
through the world? Who art thou, who art thou, my 
brother who appears to me only on the days of sorrow? 

THE VISION 

Friend, my father is also thine. I am not a guardian 
augel, neither the evil genius of men. I do not know 
where are directed the ste[)S which I love in this little 
world in which we are. 

I am not God, neither devil, and thou hast called me 
by my name when thou calledst me brother. Where thou 
wilt go I will always follow till the last day in which I 



] 00 
will go to sit on tliy grave. Heaven Jiatli entrusted thy 
lieartto me. When thou sufferest, come to me without 
uneasiness; I will come after thee on the road, but I can- 
not touch thy hand, friend; I am 

THE SOLITUDE. 

A. De Musset. 



107 

IV. 
INFAMY. 

TO REV. HARTLEY CARMICHAEL,(//«^;/z//^'^ Ontario.) 



Three families, hungry, naked, shelterless, twelve 
starved children, learning early in life how much pity 
exists in human hearts, wandering on every road, with- 
out finding shelter, stopped one day on that corner which 
once was called Switzerland the hospitahle. 

At the sight of them anger is suddenly shown. Rascals, 
vagabonds, beggars away with you! Let us cast this ti- 
resome burden qw our neighbors! Moneyless tourists, 
come, out of way! Off with you!! But our neighbors, 
thank God, have police like us for such visitors. 

You may sometimes have seen panting sheep, ceaseles- 
sly worried by butchers' dogs with hungry jaws, bleating 
in despair, hurrying and pushing, finding no place to run 
to, to fly to, to escape this horrible torture, since on every 
side they are ready to bite them. And the butcher's boy 
gleefully chuckles and hounds them on, " Bite him, there's 
a little one for you. " It is blood, it is flesh that the dog 
tears. It is an eye torn out that hangs on the jowl. It is 
a life in tatters; but close to the shambles it is quicker 
work; and one gets through his business all the sooner. 

So the poor wretches cast out on the frontier, twenty 
times are roughly repulsed. Driven on and back, over 
marshes, down ravines, through forests, caught, let go, 
caught again, from twilight to dawn, from dawn to eve, 
they go on again. Oh, horror! in vain w^ith tears and cries 
the little ones shew the tormentors their bleeding feet; in 
vain the rain drenches them, freezes them; no christian 
offers them a place under his roof; no hearth for a moment 



108 

warms the pule and flesliless bodies of these wretched 
creatures. 

Exhausted, they complain in a voice scarcely audible, 
" Mother, I am hungry, cold; mother my feet are bleeding; 
oh, mother, wait a little. " But the orders are stern . Living 
or dead, they must leave the country without delay. They 
must tramp, still tramp; and the police have many other 
cares, besides these cries and tears. 

Drag them, beat them, if their spirits break down. No 
doubt the rod wall restore their strength. Let us see how 
orders are carried out, and if to excel in this noble com- 
petition the zeal of different districts is unequal, so that 
we may give the prize to the most brutal. 

When there comes to us, dragging on a useless life, 
some worn-out millionaire, well taught the respect due to 
money, we sniff him and require nothing more; we pass 
him by as respectable, and humoring his whims, w^e find 
a virtue in his every vice. 

Scruples and morality we keep for the poor. Let us be 
proud of our hospitality; it is like a tavern dog wdio 
humbly fawns on his master's customers, loves good 
clothes, hates tramps, and always bites rags and 
licks velvet. 

Poverty, poverty, how bitter is thy wrath, and what a 
crushing burden is thy load of misery! Oh, mother of 
insults, what gall, w'hat hatred, what fear, dost thou pour 
during thy long embraces, on those whom thou choosest, 
cleaving to them like a hideous leprosy, more deadly 
every day. 

Never gaining a step, the poor man iramps day by day, 
wearing out his whole life in a fight with famine, to add 
to the cares of to-day more racking than yesterday's, those 
of to-morrow, which wake him at night; unless, indeed, 
he spend the night in ruining his (-yes in order that an- 
other may be amused, or glitter for an hour or two; to see 



109 

his dear ones hopelessly hmguish in want; to suffer in 
their suffering; to have less rest than the cattle; and yet 
to dread losing a thankless labour, and in order to keep it, 
to endure everything, contempt, hard words, from him 
who flings him a scrap of work. 

That is his fate, and his mildest fate, too; that is what 
he is when he has food, when he is to be envied. Ah! now 
I understand knavery and cunning; the selling of soul 
and body to avoid such misery; every means I'oing good 
to heap up money; for all is forgiven except the crime of 
an empty purse. 

I feel myself shuddering with profound fear, for those 
who have bread, for the world's lucky men, when I see 
them teach the hideous lesson that there is no room in 
the sunshine except for them, that for them grow the 
flowers of this human life, for others the thorns and end. 
less woe. 

Ye rich! open your eyes, it is now or never! There are 
noble hearts among you, I know there are, and pride has 
always saved me from envy, but most of you have only 
seen one aspect of life, only the laughing side of this two- 
fold world; ah! you would tremble to see the other! 

Find a quick remedy for this gnawing evil. In pru- 
dence or in pity, come to help so many wretches whose 
groans becoming every moment more distinct, are chang- 
ing into shrieks which, deaf though you be, the noise of 
your feasts cannot drown. 

At least let fear loosen your fingers. Sometimes after 
ball or concert, you throw in this bottomless pit alms 
which men applaud, and which fall like a drop of water 
in a huge conflagration; then, fools, you think you have 
satisfied this hungry crowd who gnash their teeth. 

Apportion, then your balm to the horror of the wound. 
The workman, aghast at the future, must have a labor 



110 

less thankless, so tliat he may think of his children, of his 
old age, without turning pale; he must live and must have 
some joy, some little of the happiness which Heaven 
sends you. 

Make haste to weep for every moment! Some day 
death will come, an unbidden guest, to sit at your banquet 
Then for the evil, which you have permitted, having been 
able to prevent it, on earth, you, oh, ye rich, shall answer 
for it tooth for tooth, eye for eye, bod}'' for body. 

For him whom poverty drags into crime, for the maiden 
whom poverty defiles and throws into the street, for the 
cheat, the groveler, the covetous, for all those whom fa- 
mine ruins, the anger of God, taking shape before your 
eyes, will ask of each of you, " Cain, what hast thou done 
with thy brother?" 

In the name of earth and heaven help the poor. Keep 
a little money for his cup of wormwood. In your feasts, 
your balls, your games, let the memory rise that elsewhere 
some are desolate! Give, before it is taken away from you, 
for fear lest the flock who bleat to-day, may roar to morrow. 

A. RicJiard. 






HI 

V. 

SAINT-SYLVESTER. 



TO I'llOF. DANIEL WILSON, LL. D. 

{President of University College, Toronto.) 



The year is departing. When a mere boy, ignorint of life, 
these days to lue were so beautiful, and such holidays. 
Gaily, with my soul full of hope, I ascended those hard 
ste[)3 built uj) with tombs. 

The pride of being, and of growing, shone on my face; 
under my golden hair, I showed myself a fair flowering 
shrub of which the living sap drinks and overflows in 
the sunlight. 

If I counted the days, it was not for complaining of the 
days, already past, which had fallen as dead branches; 
without fear 1 could contemplate the future, and without 
remorse I could enjoy the })resent. 

Far, very far from the ancestral hearth with empty 
heart, mournful spirit and broken body, forsaken amidst 
the swarming city, sad, depressed, martyrized, to-day the 
future frigthens me. 

To me it is like a dream, in which the pains of the day 
come back in turn to persecute us with human face, and, 
without rest, scourge us with love. 

A. RicJiard. 



112 

VI. 
TPIE TWO MOTHERS. 



TO HON. ciiras. s. i'Atterson. 
{Judge of the Court of Appeal. ) 



" I must go, and must take away from thy 
arms, oh, poor -wretch, this my darling, 
who has made thee so hapi)y. " 

I. 

On the river Loire which, like a silver thread, runs 
over a hundred miles of happy land, proud and gay, the 
citadel of Saumur raises its head. 

Like fresh beauties bathing themselves in the sea, her 
white houses extend along the river, half naked and half 
masked by vineyards and roses. Neither heat nor frost. 
It is an eternal spring. Oh, yes! beautiful and cheerful is 
the citadel of Saumur. 

And there near the walls, like a soft pillow, is a gentle 
declivity with his mantle of verdure and the shadows of 
its avenues. But this verdure, and these flowers are not 
a complete paradise, and, mixed v/ith such a celestial 
smile, is a house of sorrows. 

Yes, a mad-house is at the extremity of the avenue. 
Amidst the silence of the night, amidst the gloomy wail- 
ing of the wind, are heard, interrupted, plaintive and 
deep sounds of lament, merry songs or strange voices, 
blasphemies and atrocious laughs. 

And a strong feeling, of which nobody dares to ask the 
reason, forces every person to pay a visit to this living 
churchyard. 



113 
II. 

Oil the last hour of u splendid sunset a beautiful young 
lady, giving her hand to her little daughter, ascends the 
hill. How cdiarniing was tlie little angel of five years, 
dressed in white, fresh, smiling, handsome and nimble. 

The shinino; fair hair descends on her shoulders like 
waves, and, with her provoking looks, call for kisses. 
''Mother, can you tell me how those poor madmen live? 
Oh! how anxious I am to see them; mother, come. " 

The door is open, they ascend two stairs, they are in 
the asylum court. It was the time of the daily walk, the 
hour of the gaiety. One walks heavily, another recites, 
and another sings. Some jump up and down, some sit 
on the ground and others laugh, 

A woman with loose hair and a dark petticoat, alone, 
far away in the corner, sits on a bench as if tired by long 
work. On her pale cheeks there is an old trace of tears. 
She turns around her stupid and dull glazed eyes. 

God had given her as a token of a first love a girl whose 
face was as beautiful as that of a cherub. How she did 
love her dear daughter, how she watched her white 
cradle! Holy and deep affection! For this happy mo- 
ther her girl was the world. A cruel illness had stolen 
this gem of her life, and heartbroken from the great 
sorrow she became mad, and for five years the poor wretch 
waited for her darling, and asked of all, if they had seen 
the lost one. Everybody who saw her with this intense 
pain engraved on her squalid forehead feels in his own 
soul a charm forcing him to tears. The kind lady ap- 
proached near the unhappy mother, probibly moved by 
such great sorrow. 

Clinging to the skirt of her dress her little daughter 
thrusts forward her head, and with her eyes filled with 



114 

tears, she said: " Poor thing! " Then softly approached 
the mad woman and with her little hand caressed her 
dark hair. 

Shaken at this touch the unhappy one turns a look to 
the little angel, and a strange light shines in her eyes; 
then fixedly looking at her, she uttered a cry, opened her 
arms, and with an impetuosity of affection pressed the 
little one to his breast. 

" (3h, my daughter, my dear daughter, how strong is 
this joy which overflows my heart! Almighty God, let 
me die in such happiness! Die? Who speaks of death? 
To live, I say, yes, I will live now that I have found the e 
and I will live always near my child. 

" Come, sit here on my knees; let me kiss thy beautiful 
ey9s, let me forget these few years of horrid anguish. 
From the very first day I lost thee, my eyes had no more 
tears, but the excessive ecstasy of this hour makes me 
weep anew. 

" Tell me, where, where thou hast been all these years 
I was in search of thee? Hast thou perhaps been in the 
joy of the othf^r life? But even in heaven in vain thou hast 
asked my sweet kisses, and now thou comest back to the 
loving embraces of thy mother. Thou comest now and 
wilt fly no more from these arms. I would rather die. Oh, 
yes, I feel that surely I would die, if again thou wert taken 
away from me." 

III. 

In such a way she spoke and convulsively pressed the 
gill to her panting bosom, and, in the intoxication of her 
deluded affection, kisses witliout number came from the 
burning lips. It was a fever of infinite love that sweetly 
melted her heart. The dear girl with her little hand 
caressed the dark hair, and, in return, kissed the unhappy 



115 

woman and smiled at her M'ith love's smile, the younfr 
mother not daring to trouble the joy of such a brief 
enchantment. 

In the meantime the falling evening's twilight was 
shedding its pale light, and the dread band of guards 
opened the door of the inner staircase, the clock of the 
asylum calling the family of the lunatics to their respect- 
ive cells. The kind stranger who feared to destroy the 
joy of this holy mistake approached near the poor mad 
woman, telling her in a pitiful voice of love, " I must go 
and I must take away from thy arms, poor wretch this my 
darling, who has made thee so happy!" Jumping up 
the mad woman with ferocious fear pressing the girl to 
her breast, " Who art thou," she cried to her with harsh 
voice, "who comest to trouble my motherly affection?" 

"Knowest thou not that neither Satan nor God could 
ravish me of my little angel? Away, far from me. Woe 
to him who will dare to touch only a hem of her dress. 
Bather that permit her to be taken from my arms, I would 
rather she should die, oh, yes, I will kill her rather than 
lose her again. " 

Neither prayer nor threat could subdue the delusion of 
her mind, and with her lean arm raising the little g'rl, if 
anyone came forward, only a step, she meant to throw her 
on the ground, and such was the strong resolution gleam- 
ing from her gesture and from her accents, that it was 
thought better to leave her alone, and to await the events 
of the night. 

Therefore all retired, and she with the girl ran into her 
cell, and there, in haste ])utting in order the bed, laid her 
child in it, and, arranging with care the folds of the rough 
sheets, joyfully sits at the bedside looking at her, smiling 
and kissing her. 

Under the pressure of the hand which softly caresses 



the girl, she shut her hirge eyes, and, yielding to weariness 
and sleep, fell into a sweet slumber, whilst the mad woman 
who was near her, soothed her repose with this song: 

" Sleep, girl, my jealous eye as a guardian angel watches 
at thy pillow, and the interminable kiss like music 
soothes thy slumbers. 

'' Sleep, darling, and let me see thy moist brow, let me 
in the pure ecstasy of superhuman delirium intoxicate 
myself with thy warm breath. 

" Beautiful thou art! thy cheek is rosy, thy head rests 
upon thy snow-white arm, and the halo of thy fair hair 
in a gentle disorder sorrounds thy forehead. 

" Beautiful thou art! in the quiet rest of thy face I seem 
to see a ray of paradise, and in the celestial joy which 
shines in thy looks, I see the image of happy dreams. 

" Dream, and in thy sleeping may the rainbow pour its 
colors, the stars their rays, the flowers their perfumes, 
and may the Holy Virgin* send from the paradise a com- 
pany of angels to hover around thee. " 

IV. 

There the voice become faint as the sound of a distant 
harp, and her tired forehead fell on the pillow of the little 
one. Once again the calm sleep of the happy days re- 
turned to her tired eyes. 

The young mother absorbed in that fear which surpas- 
ses all fears, from the wicket of the iron door peeped into 
the darkroom, where every movement, every kiss, every 
noise was a stroke of a poniard which pierced her heart. 

But when all was silent, and there was only heard the 
cadence of two respirations, softly and gently a keeper 
crept into the room, advanced silently and without awak- 
ening the little one, who was sleeping, took her with him 
and shut the door. 



117 

The mother uttered a cry of joy, which echoed in the 
wide sonorous vaults, and kissing her dear lost angel > 
pressed her to her heart, and ran through the dark cor- 
ridor with her tightly clasped in her motherly arms. 

The mad woman awakened at the sound of the strange 
cry, perceived herself to be alone, looked around, and 
from the hole in the door, by the light of a dying lamp, 
she saw the white dress of the fugitive girl. A horrible 
cry of rage was heard, her eyes were suffused with blood, 
and with a foam on her livid lips she stretced forth her 
arms and rushed forward. Thrice she shook the unyield- 
ing door, then fell backwards a corpse. 

Fusinato, 




lis 

THE PllOGRESS. 



TO MRS. MILBURN, {Bltffalo, N. Y.) 



Vainly do we mingle arts and sciences, never, Oh! Na- 
ture, shall be able to reach thy magnificence so great and 
at the same time so simple. Always we shall be out- done 
by thy specimens, all our temples, all our palaces, all our 
immortal works are not comparable to the immense dome 
of the forests. 

The most beautiful colors prepared by mankind become 
pale beside the pearly depth of four drops of water reflect- 
ing the pure sky. Color-changing mohair, fine laces, 
gauze, nor satin doth equal the wings of a beautiful but- 
terfly fluttering into space. 

The steamer which we see hurling itself on his fiery 
course, throwing into the air its thrilling voice, still nurtur- 
ed the flames, and tamed by a gesture cannot follow the 
bird, whose towering flight, without l)reaking the harm- 
onious silence, soars through the expanse of blue. 

Then thousand torches of serene light which electricity, 
this new queen, has sent to human genius to fight with 
darkness, are these worth a single ray of the sun which 
glancing from a stream, gilds the branches; or the moon 
on a beautiful evening, or a glittering star? 

All the bold dogmas, the dark systems invented at 
random by men, and which one sees dominating by turn 
here below, cannot equal that sublime belief in a God who 
must punish because He is just and holy, and Who at the 
same time well knows how to forgive because He is Love. 

A. de CJiavibrler. 



11.) 

VIII. 
THE STORM AT THE SAINT- BERNARD. 



TO J. PESCiA M. i).,{San Francisco, Cal.) 
But it i.s done, — all words are idle. 

KYKON. 

Come, little ones, do not cry! Soon yon shall see your 
father. Thou the eldest say thy prayer! Come, children, 
do not cr^^ 

"Mother, Avhen will he return? "-r" My son this time 
surely he has set off later. A business is discussed which 
ends at the table, and afterward one leaves it hardly able 
to see. At the table one has always something more to say." 
'' Mother it is dark "— " Child it is a cloud. The sky is 
bright at the village. Besides thy father is a prudent 
man; more than once he has made this journey. May 
Saint-Bernard make calm the wind. " 

Thus the mother, in her poor cottage, tries to hide the 
fear to which she is a prey: and many times, in cruel 
anxiety, stretches the ear, and thinking that som-ebody is 
walking, says to herself: why does he delay so long?" 

Why does he delay so long? Look at the valley Avoman! 
Look at these whirlwinds and at the she-goat running 
towards thy solitary hut, and at the ol)SCuriiy darkening 
the forests before the time. 

Cross thyself, and listen to these creaking squalls whose 
doleful notes seem to speak of death: and to the fall far 
off which roars at intervals; and hear the voice of the 
torrents now swelling, now decreasing. 

Dost thou not hear moaning the shivering leaves and 
the wind ingulfed in the deep woods, and the hurricane, 
carried on its powerful wings, plunging from the top of 
the mountains in the gloomy valley? 



1-20 

Poor woman! — In spite of so many signs of storm a 
jDoasant at the fall of the day, was marching over the 
fearful Saint-Bernard. In the vigor of the age, and in 
order to see sooner again his rustic abode, he has despised 
many wise advices. He had left Aosta; alas! and the im- 
j)rudent had passed before the hospice without entering it. 

Cheerful he was going on through the mountain. Some- 
times sinking waist-deep in the snow, he was saying, so 
little was he frightened, "It is nothing! " and laughed in 
getting out of the snow, then without fear, courageous, as 
he was in the middle of the country, he, careless of the 
weather, lighted his pipe and whistled an old tune loved 
by his children. 

May God keep you friend. May the propitious Virgin 
drive back the storm to the extremity of the horizon and 
avert thy foot from the precipice! But better, if thou 
wishest to see again thy house, without delaying a moment 
go, return to the hospice! There are the guardian angels 
of the travelers; at the risk of their own they will save 
thy life. 

The air became brisk. The sky covered. The clouds 
before scattered which one had seen shine enflamed, now 
lie close, black and full of havoc, like batallions formed for 
an attack. The avalanche soon will hinder the road. Do 
not go, do not go! 

Already the snow whirls around him. He hears sounds 
which usually render men pale, and that nameless voice 
which continually resounds, now seeming to cry, now to 
roar. It is the wind of the desert! It is the voice which 
in this place of woe nobody hears without trembling, 
which no other voice could resemble. 

In the plain when the storm comes, the waters with 
their roars answers to its voice. The tree of which in its 
rage it tries to bend the head, stirs and stands erect hiss- 



121 

ing. In the mountains instead nothing answers to the 
storm, there nothing stops it. No rival roaring has ever 
moderated there the horrible majesty of this dreaded voice. 

The unfortunate insists. He marches. At the end of 
an hour he begins to feel his leg dull. " Pshaw! it is the 
wind. Let us reach home! But I do notknow why I am 
growing cold. " 

Wretch! What hast thou done? Who is able to pre- 
serve thee to thy wife who cries, to thy children? Do not 
hope for an}^ help here below: (xod only can save thee. 

He goes, goes. He feels the great allurement of a 
sleepiness which oppresses him and which he vainly tries 
to drive back. " I wish to sleep a while to acquire 
strength," says he, "in order to pursue my journey. " Go, 
go on imprudent! Thou must endeavor not to yield to 
the spell which lulls thee to sleep. Go on. To sleep here, 
it is death. 

He sits. His eyes soon close to the light. Confused 
but attractive objects deceive him. He believes he sees 
afar his hut, and hears walk his wife and his children. 
*' Well," says he opening his eyelids "I must go. I see 
them. The}'- come. I am better. " Then he gets up, 
and falls, closing the eyes. 

Later, in the savage little valley, a traveler, passing, 
met, at the edge of the road, a pale-faced mother, whose 
young children were tendering the hands for alms, saying, 
"God may help you in your journey!" He wished to 
know their story. "Our father died," they answered. 

A. RicJiard. 



122 
IX. 

THE UNKNOWN LIGHT. 



TO MISS FANNY LEE, {C/ucagO, ILL.) 



When darkness comes, be the niglit cloudy or clear, 
suddenly on the distant heights I see shining a light 
which may be taken for a golden star. Every evening 
without fail it glistens at the hour when the hills are 
vanishing into the gloom, which slowly veils the world as 
it goes to rest. 

Often I contemplate this solitary ray, which reaches 
me fall of vague mysteries. Sometimes it seems to me 
that it lures me towards it, and a thousand stransie desires 
thrill my being. I should like to turn aside from beaten 
tracks and direjt my steps to this light which beams and 
gleams. I let my heart wander at my fancy's pleasure, 
and by turn a thousand visions pass before my eyes, soon 
to vanish. 

First it is a young golden-tressed maiden, with large 
blue eyes filled with brightness so serene and pure that 
they make one dream of heaven. 

Thoughtful and diligent she sews unceasingly; she 
wishes to finish her task this very evening, but often her 
sweet sparkling eyes turn towards the easy chair where 
her grandfather is slumbering, while the lamp sheds a 
reddish glow ou the forehead of this noble white-haired 
old riian. 

Or it is a young shepherd who to rest himself from his 
weary labor comes to meet his betrothed and sits down 
beside her; he is strong and manly, she beautiful and 
active, and near both, a mastiff their faithful companion 
sleeps with his head resting on the ground. 

In low tune they murmur sweet things to each other, 



123 

tliey expect to wed in the time of roses when birds make 
their nests, and — what peals of laughter! The dog pricks 
up his ears, and with his big, sleepy eyes half open 
watches them like an old and trusted iriend. 

Perhaps it is a learned man, a thinker, an artist, who 
seeks the calm, who is sad in the crowd, and who gives 
the watches of the night to toil. He thinks himself for- 
gotten in his severe retreat, not guessing that my heart 
piercing earth's fogs, understands him, and that my eyes 
follow him. 

Or again in the depths of my memory, stumbling over 
the remains of ancient history, 1 think of some gnome 
seated near a tomb where sleeps a princess with long 
raven black hair, her pale face strangely serene, waiting 
to be awakened by a young and beautiful prince. 

Alas! And it is thus that I preserve my dreams! 1 
remember them always without fatigue and without rest. 
More than once I have said to myself: *' To-morrow at 
dawn I will go in person to search fol* the last word of 
this problem. ..." but the following day never finds jne 
on the road. 

I am afraid of seeing my palace of chimeras crumble; 
the sweet illusions of my heart are dear to me. I love so 
much to dream alone in the darkness. Seeing thee near, 
thou, modest lamp, surely I should say: " Alas! poor 
poet, thy dreams are better than reality! " 

yi. de Chambrier. 



124 
X. 

MONOLOGUE 

of 

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 



TO THE CONSUL OF ITALY, CAV. G. M. GIANNP]LLI. 



I am dying, old and wretched, and it was right that I 
should die in such away! My life, toiled through suffer- 
ing, ends with grief; but amidst all, God granted so great 
and infinite a joy, that every pain compared to it causes a 
smile. God, who, when He pours on the world a ray of 
eternal light, recommends it to Italy, His beautiful Italy 
thus spnke to me: " Daring Genoese, try the sun's path! " 

And I turned my eyes to the West, and I saw a new 
world, as it were, rise from the waves; immense forests 
of unknown trees, immense rivers, immense I'lains, There 
were the softs fruits which distant India ripens, which 
Europe envies and desires; birds nameless with us, dif- 
ferent wild beasts, seas filled with pearls, and mountains 
of gold — and the voice said: " Go; come back and tell the 
stor3^ " 

But I am poor; sails do not spread at my command. I 
have nothing but a thought! Audi brought my thought 
to the crowned heads of the world and asked a little gold 
for recompense. Alas! I was derided. For three long 
lustres I v/as scorned and went wandering about, and no- 
body understood me. I heard not, I saw not! 

Here, bring me nearer to the balcony; for pity's sake 
do not take away from me the sight of the sea! The sea! 
the sea! my kingdom, the friend of my youth and of my 
glory! let me greet it a last time, and let me depart on 
that yourney from which nobody returns. 



125 

I was so glad, so serene when, for the first time, I 
challenged it. Courageous, I pushed myself on its open 
bosom where man's eye never yet reached. Foolish coward- 
ice imagined it to be filled with monsters and terrors. I 
was not afraid. 

Fly my ship; if my heart beats it is not for fear of the 
waves but of my followers. Fly, fly my ship, let not mi- 
schievous omens arrest thy swift course. A new land is 
there. Gaily and speedily let us make sail for the foreign 
shore; let us follow. God protects the bold undertaking. 
The wind is propitious, and the waves are gentle. 

But already days go by, months have passed away, and 
no trace of new countries is perceived. Our life is always 
between heaven and sea, and confidence has disappeared 
from every face. What more can I do to encourage these 
men who only understand the vily sound of gold? I see 
other stars and other poles! " Three days more, and if 
our hopes are vain, I surrender myself to you. " 

Here we see flocks of birds rapidly fly from the West; 
sea-weeds and cleft from lands not distant. Land! land! 
A panting cry breaks the eternal silence of the sky. It 
is the land! it is the land! Who could now describe my 
noy? Alight seen from afar in the dark air gives strength 
to the assured heart and to the tired hand. Forward! 
forward! Here is the dawn. Perhaps is my dream? No, 
no, this is the longed-for land, virgin, beautiful, dewy — 
beautiful like a bride given as a reward to valour, fair 
and flowery like the hope courted by me for so many years. 
See the sun advances; see the land smiles with proud life! 
Furls the sails, lower the boat. Oh, beloved land, at last 
I kiss thee. 

The great work is accomplished! Am I not now the 
master of my land and of my sea? Where is my roy^l 
palace? Where are my councillors, my jewels, my crown? 
Ferdinand where is thy faith? 



126 

Thou wast sitting proud iu the conquer 3d Alhambra. 
■Granada lay vanquished at thy feet. A wandering Italian, 
l^urdened by thought, whom anguish had made old before 
his time, leading by the hand a little boy, came to thy 
throne. Around it were princes, lords, captains, and all 
Spain's ancient splendor- What, jiowerful king, on that 
day said the unknown Genoese? 

'• Sire, " said he, and he spoke without trembling, " for- 
tune made thee sovereign of Aragon, love made thee 
master of Castille, war gave thee the beautiful kingdom 
of the Moors. Well I will do for thee more than fortune, 
love and war already have done, I will give thee a world. " 

And then Oh, king, when from the far ocean unexepected 
I returned and brought thee gold and jewels of thy new 
kingdom, thine without a drop of bloodshed, and to thy 
dumfounded sages and proud councillors haughtily I an- 
swered with facts, showing the proofs of the glorious 
achievement; what saidst thou. Oh king? " Genius is the 
S2)arkle of an eternal idea, and is superior to every crown. 
Grandees of Spain off with your hats! " Now, I am the 
same Columbus. In the gold, the distant springs of which 
I opened, Europe floats, and Spain is plunged up to the 
neck. Poor and forgotten, I beg my living, crust by crust, 
and the discoverer of a new world has not a roof, nor a 
house where he may die in peace. 

Oh, do not tell my grand- children such an infamy! Oh, 
do not say that these arms even yet keep the marks of 
chains, and that, in the place of my triumph, I lived a 
prisoner! Cruel story! If it was fated that such a re- 
compense should follow the benefit, God be thanked, that 
I have not done it for Italy. 

It was right, it was right; see the beautiful country 
streaming with blood and with massacre. Of the people 
who butcher, and the people who suffer, which is the 



127 

savage? Crime! crime! The sword is plunged into the 
breast of innocent brethren, but this was not my intention 
wlien I undertook to guide you, ye wicked! It is not gold 
that tempts wickedness, but vice is followed by useless 
offenses; these faithless men have made the Cross a 
pretext for butchery, the Cross, law of eternal pily. 

Cease, ye cruel ones, what rage maddens you? Is gold 
not enough, that you wish even fur blood? And cannot 
blood quench your horrible thirst? If this is valor what 
cowardice be? Shut out from niy last moments this fatal 
scene! Let me not see these horrors. Already high 
vengeance is moved, is awakened — it roars — it falls — and 
first on me. 

It was right! it was right! I bow my head. Oh sea! 
The sight of thee is remorse to me. Though innocent, we 
are accomplices to great disasters! The time will come 
when on blood and crime will rest the forgetfulness of 
centuries, and when from this new partnership will come 
to the universe as much good as formerly evil was produced, 
then amidst far posterity my name nniy be blessed, and a 
reward of honor more glorious, because longer delayed, 
may comfort my weury bones. 

Now cover my face — I die in peace. 



Gazaoletti. 



'^ o f^ 



12S 
XI. 

THE PIRATE'S SONG. 



TO A. NAKDINI,(5c?« FvaUcisCO^ CAL.) 



With ten gans on each side, the wind right aft, and all 
sails set, a brig does not plow the sea, but flies. The 
pirate vessel, for her bravery called the " Feared, " well 
known in. the water from one shore to the other. 

The moon shines on the sea, amongst the sails sighs 
the wind, and by a slight movement raises waves of silver 
and blue. And the pirate captain, gaily singing on the 
poop beholds Asia on one side, Europe on the other and 
there before him Stambouh 

" Sail on my ship without fear, inasmuch as no un- 
friendly sail, nor storm, nor calm is able to overtake thy 
stern or to conquer thy valor. In spite of the English I 
have taken twenty prizes and a hundred nations have 
lowered their flags at my feet. 

"That my ship is my treasure, liberty my God, the 
force and the winds are my laws, and the sea my only 
fatherland. 

" Let blind kings move fiery wars beiA^eeu themselves 
for the sake of a span of land, whilst here I have for mine, 
all that is grasped by the wide sea to whom nobody has 
dictated laws. And now, there is no shore, wherever it 
be, nor a flag of renown which has not felt my right hand 
and proclaimed my bravery, 

''That my ship is my treasure, etc. 

*' At the cry of ' Sail, oh! ' it is something to see how it 
turns and takes measures to avoid every snare, inasmuch 
I am the king of the sea, and my anger is to be feared. 
In the prizes, I divide the booty equally, keeping for my- 



129 

self only a wealth, beauty without rivals. 

"That my ship is my treasure, etc. 

"I am sentenced to death; I laugh at it. Let fortune 
not forsake me and regarding the one who condemns me, 
perhaps I shall hang him to the yard-arm of his own ship. 
And if I fall? What is life I gave it up the same day, 
when, like a brave man, I threw away from me the yoke 
of a slave. 

" That my ship is my treasure, etc. 

" My best music is the northern wind, the trembling 
and noise of grating cables, the roar of the blackened sea 
and the thunder of my guns, and amid the violent dim 
of the thunderbolts, mid the howling wind, I slee[) calm, 
lulled by the sea. " 

Don Jose de Espronceda. 



130 
XII. 

CHARITY. 

TO EEV. I). J. MACDONELL. 



When the pining flower that summer causes to fade 
leans toward the burning soil to die, and to quench the 
fire by which it is devoured, ask« and begs only a drop of 
water; without rain or dew this dying complaint falls 
with the wind's breath. 

So when the unhappy being drags himself along, bent 
from the cradle undsr troubles, oppressed by his burden, 
if the arm of his brother does not support his misery, if 
some sweet voice does not speak a word which raises and 
comforts him, he must fall under its weight. 

Oh, sublime charity, balm of grief, thou whose sight 
inspires courage, thou who driest tears; beloved daughter 
of God! Pain and bitter complaint are silent before thee; 
peace is in thy mouth, and those touched by thy hand 
suddenly lose their fears. 

He who lost in doubt and in despair has long ago stray- 
ed from the right path, by thee is brought repentant to 
God whom he had forgotten, and thou restorest hope in 
him who hope no more. 

Oh, Supreme Majesty, thy sovereign order has said: 
" Love thy neigbor as thyself. " The man only to whom 
misery never is troublesome is just in thine eyes. If in 
heart he is poor, by the good actions he has done, he will 
become rich in heaven. 

A, RicJiard. 




131 
XTII. 

WHY LOVEST THOU ME? 



TO C. BARSOTTI, M. 1). 



I. 

Why lovest thou me 3^oung girl? Dost thou know who 
I am? A young i>oet who always runs in the same road 
amongst thorns and flowers, and never arrives at the 
goal. The poor poet is a butterfly, and, like tliis one, 
loves the pictured flower beds, and now rising up, then 
down, plays with the breeze and search the sun and 
the flowers. 

The little butterfly is happy with a few drops and with 
a little fragrance; a drop of dew quenches its thirst, arose 
leaf is its room. 

Often foreign to what it hears or sees, it is pleased with 
its golden wings and flowers, contented with the virtue 
God gave it, thus passing its life in peace. 

The lion passes, the king of the forest, and seeing it 
going from flower to flower, ''This is the happiest one," 
says he, "that flying, passes the time in making love. " 

The fox passes, busy with its cunning, and scoffs at the 
sincere butterfly, which without any snare or any offence, 
goes flying alone, always alone. 

The magpie passes, deafening the valley, the magpie 
always slanderous and brating. The screech-owl passes, 
found of ruins, enemy of love and peace. . 

But the butterfly, which is born for other purf)Oses, 
passing, does not look at them, and does not care for them, 
and always flies, and it is always in love, such as nature 
made it. 



132 
IT. 

With a few drops, with few perfumes, the poor poet also 
nourishes himself. Amongst the flowers of his hopes, he 
too is a happy and nimble butterfly. 

He opens the little window at the first dawn, and sing- 
ing, he salutes the rising sun. The breeze repeats his 
verses of love and the heart of any who listen to him 
trembles. 

Near the setting of the sun he moans and cries, and he 
recites the verses thou singest; they are the songs of his 
mountains, those songs which he never forgets. 

The note of that sweet song trembles as the flower of 
the land which gave him birth. There is the word, there 
is the laugh, the weep, there are the eyes and the lips 
of his girl. 

III. 

Like prophetic birds his verses go from sea to sea, from 
land to land. Different people repeat them in the time 
of peace and war. 

The poet is poor, and every one says so; but he has a 
lieart as great and as deep as the sea, and to look at him 
he seems the happiest and the richest man in this world. 

So very poor',' and so very rich, he passes among the 
people humble and proud, and through his fatal journey 
he tires the light of free thought. 

And he who nie^ts him looks at him and greets him 
with the most beautiful name that resounds in the world, 
and that name which the world gives him is the prettiest 
ornanient of his wreath. 

Glarues, smiles and courteous receptions are not denied 
to him, and he smiles to all; but believe me, my Lina, 
these are his only joy, these his only fruits. And these 



fruits will not te envied by the animals -of shrewd and 
doubtful faith, screech-owls, foxes and li6ns,because they 
know, too well they know, that the little butterfly, does 
not desire anything else. 

IV. 

Yes, I too, oh! Lina, am like the butterfly, I that in 
every road am searching for flowers: my amorous soul 
runs after that desire which drags it. 

It runs from morning to evening, and itself, poor thin?, 
does not know why it runs, and the more it pricks itselt' 
the more approaches to those roses which desire colors. 
And believes to suck in the lap of all the flowers drops of 
ambrosia to sweeten the song; but often, my Lina, tho.-je 
sweet humors are only drops of his own weeping. 

Yes, butterfly I am, my Lina, aud the native clod is 
generous of a hundred flowers; but these are perfumf-s, 
and the wind wafts them, the favors of my native land. 



Now thou knowest who I am, and I do not understand 
how thou, my girl, lovest me so much. Is it my poor 
name that is dear to thee, or perhaps is ray plaintive song? 
But name and song shall pass; my poor verses are flowers, 
and thou well knowest it, that the sweetest odor of the 
prettiest flower does not live longer than a day. 

And then dost thou not see how much harmony of life 
and love there is around us? Dost thou not see how in 
the same day this universe almost is born and dies? 
And perhaps there where now life dances, death shall 
raise her black tents, and the people of free hope may be 
a heap of bones and bands. 

And those roses, where now the nightingales warble 
perhaps shall be turned into sprigs and amongst them 



134 

there sliall only be heard the sharp hissing of savage snakes. 
And perhaps here where I am singing of affection, and 
where so many others also will sing, this thy little blessed 
village, which completely enraptures me with its beauties, 
shall be changed into wood, and every thicket will give a 
volume of doubtful stories, and the crow's song shall be 
heard, the old sybil of the desert. 

VI. 

All falls and rises again, and everybody perceives this, 
but love, love, Lina, does not die; his seat is in our soul- 
Everlasting as the soul is love. 

And thy love shall never change its intensity; that is 
what I only wish from thee. Of love, only of love, speak 
always to me, inasmuch as he who speaks of love speaks 
of God. 

With the elegance of a nod and a smile, thou awakest 
in me sweet and new poetry. Through thy pretty blue 
eyes, truly it seems to me, I see Paradise. 

G. A. CostansQ. 



135 
XIV. 

POOR BARD! 

TO L. STECCHETTI. 

As a child in thy presence I lower- 
ed my eyes, I cowered at thy knees 
as fawningly as u whipped spaniel. 
With my proud forehead bent I 
kissed the hem of thy garment. I 
suffered, I cursed, I cried and thou 
laughedest. 

Now I rise from my cowardly ba- 
seness, and break my chains, I feel 
ashamed of me and my love , I rise, 
and 1 despise thee. 

STECCHETTI, (Anger.) 

Poor poet! in what proud remorse of past cowardice con- 
sumest thou thyself? Thou risest and insultest, and I 
hardly say, if thou wert more coward then, or less proud 
now. Thou risest and insultest. Ah! do not repeat the 
insult which so imprudently came out from thy heart! 
This is not pride, it is not courage, it is not freedom .... 
on my word it is love! 

Behold with what pain and blind rage thou thro west 
mud on the once worshipped idol! How bleeds the heart 
which IS cursing! Cease thy scoffing. Woe if she hear 
the sound of thy scoffs, woe if she sees ihee! To-morrow 
on going again to kiss her foot, perhaps thou shall pay 
dear for her forgiveness. 

If thou art a poet do not insult the sacred flame which 
lightened thy heart if it dictated to thy dust a single poem 
and gave a single spark to thy grief. 

Do not insult her, do not cry out that the desire for 



136 

" vile mud " enflamed thee. Wretched one, how shalt 
thou say to the world " of that mud 1 had made a God. " 
Ah ! do not speak of this dream Avhich is fixed in thy 
heart, Oh, do not soil that shadow. In order to possess 
that right thou oughtest have never placed her on the altar. 

Until from thine eye and from thy suffering spirit shall 
come but a single tear, respect the dream which opened 
an heaven for thee, respect the mud which inspired thee 
with a song. 

If truly thou art now strong and free, if thy insults are 
born from a redeemed heart, I offer thee another trial. 
Go to her, gaze on her face, without moving an eye. 

Defy the old power of her eyes without experiencing 
a chill in thy veins. Look at her face without desire or 
anger, without scorn or hope. And try to breathe without 
shock in the wake of her hidden perfumes. Approach 
her, touch one of her hands without feeling a shudder in 
thy bones. 

And when the heart shall no more give thee a shudder, 
a tear or an oath, poor poet, oh, then, only then, thou 
canst boast of having conquered love. 

No! this roar of rage is not the comfort thou are search- 
ing for. Poor poet! Thou shalt not be cured except on 
the day thou shalt forgive. 

F. Cavallotti. 



lo7 
XV. 

HOPE IN GOD. 
TO J. DUNFIELD, M. D. {Canada.) 

As long as my feeble heart, yet full of youth, shall not 
have bid farewell to his last illusions, I would abide by 
the old wisdom which has made a demi-god of the sober 
Epicurus. I would live, love, accustom myself to my 
equals, go in search of joy without relying upon it, do 
what has been done, be what I am, and carelessly lift my 
eyes to heaven. 

It is impossible. Infinity torments me. In spite of 
myself I cannot think of it without fear or hope, and not- 
"withstanding all what has been said, my reason is fright- 
ened at seeing it, and not being capable of understanding 
it. What is this world? and what we come to do in it, if 
to live in peace, it is necessary to veil heaven? To pass 
like sheep with our eyes fixed on the ground and to for- 
sake all else, can that be called happiness? No, it is to 
cease to be a man, and degrades the soul. Chance has 
put me in the world. Happy or unhappy, I am born of 
a woman, and I cannot throw of humanity. 

What can I do then? "Be merry," says paganism, 
"be merry and die." "Hope" answers Christianity, 
heaven alw^ays watches, and thou canst not die. " 

Between these two roads I hesitate. I would wish to 
follow a more easy path, but a secret voice tells me that 
with regard to heaven one must believe or deny. This 
is my opinion too. Tortured souls cast themselves, some- 
times into one, sometiuies into the other, of these two 
extremes. The indifferent are atheists, — if they would 
.doubt only for a day, they could not sleep. I yield, and 
as the matter leaves in my heart a desire full of dread, I 



138 

will bend my knees, I wish to believe and to liope. 

Here I am in the hands of a God more dreadful than 
all evils of this world put together. Plere I am alone a 
wandering, weak and miserable creature beneath the eye 
of a witness who leaves me not. He watches me, lie 
follows me. If my heart beats too quick I offend his 
dignity and his divinity. A precipice is opened under 
my steps. If I fall into it to expiate an hour, an eternity is 
needed. My judge is a tyrant who d3ceives his victim. For 
me everything becomes a snare and changes its name. 
Love becomes a sin, happiness a crime, and all the world 
is for me a continuous temptation. I liave nothing more 
of humanity about me. I await the recompense, I try to 
avoid the punishment; fear is my guide, and death is 
my only aim. 

Nevertheless, it is said that an infinite joy will be the 
share of some elect. Who are those happy beings? If 
thou hast deceived me, wilt thou again give me life? If 
thou hast told me the truth, wilt thou open the heavens? 

Alas! this beautiful country, promised by thy prophets, 
if it really exists, must be a desert. Thou requirest those 
choosen ones to be too pure, and when this happiness 
arrives they already have suffered too much. I am a man, 
and I will not be less, nor attempt more. Where should 
I stop? If I cannot believe in the priest's promises shall 
I consult those who are indifferent? 

If my heart, wearied by the dream which troubles it, 
returns again to reality for consolation, at the bottom of 
the vain pleasures called into my aid I find a disgust that 
kiUs me. In the same day in which my thoughts are im- 
pious, in which to end my doubts I wish to deny, even 
though I possessed all that a man could desire, power 
health, wealth, love, the only blessingof this world, though 
the fair Astart^ worshipped by Greece should come from 



130 

the azure islands, and should open lit-r arms, though I 
could come into possession of the secret of the earth's 
fertility, and thus changing at my fancy living matter, 
create a beauty for myself alone, though Horace, Lucre- 
tius and old Epicurus seated near me, should call me 
happy, and those great lovers of nature should sing the 
praises of pleasures, and the contempt of the gods, I would 
say to all, "In spite of our efforts I suffer, it is too late, 
the world has become old, an infinite hope has crossed 
the earth, and against our will, we must raise our eyes 
to heaven." 

What else remains to me to try. Vainly my reason 
tries to believe, and my heart to doubt. The christian 
jiffrights me, and in spite of my senses I cannot listen to 
what the atheist says to me. True religious people will 
cull me an impious, the indiflferent will call me a fool. 
To whom shall I address myself, and what friendly voice 
will comfort my heart wounded by doubt? 

It is said that there exists a philosophy which can 
explain everything without revelation. Granted. Where 
are those makers of systems who, without faith know how 
to find the truth? Weak sojthists, who believe only in 
themselves, what are their arguments, what th^ir autho- 
rities? One shows me, here below, two principles at war, 
which alternatively conquered, are both everlasting. (1) 
Another, far away in the desert heaven discovers a useless 
God Who will have no altar. (2) I see Plato dreaming, 
and Aristotle thinking. I hear them, I praise them, but 
I pursue my way. Under absolute kings I find a despot 
God, now they spoke to us of a republican God; Pythagoras 
and Leibnitz transfigure my being. Descartes leaves me 
perplexed. Montaigne, after great examination cannot 
understand himself. Pascal trembling tries to escape his 
(.1.) Manicheans. (2) Theism. 



140 
own visions. I'yrro blinds nie unci Zeno makes me in- 
sensible. Voltaire tlirows down all he sees standing. 
Spinosa tired of trying the impossible, vainly searching 
for his God, ends by seeing him everywhere. With the 
English sophist, (1) man is a machine, finally, out of the 
fogs comes a German rhetorician, (2) who, finishing tlie 
ruin of philosophy, declares Heaven empty and proves 
that there is nothing. 

Here are the wrecks of liuman science! and after five 
thousand years continually <loubting, after such a great 
and persevering work, behold there the last result at 
which we have arrived. Poor, foolish, miserable brains, 
who have explained all in such different ways, to reach 
Heaven you need wings. You had the desire, but faith 
was not with you. I pity you; your pride came from a 
wounded soul; you have felt the pangs of which my heart 
is filled, and you well knew this bitter thought whieli 
makes man tremble whenever he considers infinity. AVell 
come on, let us pray together, let us abjure the misery of 
our childish calculations, of such vain wor.k. Now that 
your bodies are dust I will pray for you on your graves. 
Come pagan rhetoricians, masters of sciences, christians 
of old times, and thinkers of the })resent age, believe me, 
prayer is a cry of hope. Let us ourselves address to God. 
He is good, without doubt, H3 forgives you. All you have 
suffered is forgotten. If Heaven is a desert, we shall 
offend nobody, if there is One Wlio hears us, may lie 
pity us. 

PRAYER. 

Oh, Thou, Whom nobody has been able to know,* and 
whom none has denied without lying, answer us. Thou 
Who hast made me, and to-morrow shalt make me die. 
(1) Locke. {-\ Kant. 



141 

Since Thou lettest us to unJerstund ilieo, why, mako-st 
thou people doubt thee? What sad pleasure canst thou 
foel in tempting our good faith? As soon as a man raises 
his head he thinks that he sees thee in heaven: ihe crea- 
lion, his conquest, in his eyes is only a vast temple. As 
soon as he descends into his inward he finds Thee. Thou 
llvest in him. If he suffers, weeps or loves, it is his God 
AVho has so willed. The noblest intelligence, the most 
sublime ambition is to prove Thy existence and in teach- 
iu^ Thy name. Whatever is the name given Thee, 
Brahma, Jupiter, Jesus, True Eternal Justice, all arms 
iirc extended to Thee. The last of the sons of the earth 
thanks thee from his heart as soon as to his misery is 
mixed a simple api^earance of happiness. All the world 
glorifies Thee; the bird from his nest sings to Thee; and 
thousands of beings have blessed Thee for a drop of 
rain. Nothing has been done by Thee that is not admir- 
e<l; none of thy gifts is lost to us; an<l Thou cannot smil- 
est without we fall on our knees before Thee. Why then 
Supreme Master, hast thou-created evil so great that reason 
and even virtue tremble at its sight? Whilst so many 
things in the world proclaim the divinity, and seem to be 
witnesses of the love, power and kindness of a father; how 
is it that under the holy sky are seen actions so shocking 
as to check the prayer on the lips ot the unhappy? How 
is it that in Thy divine handiwork are so many elements 
not in harmony? To what good are pestilence and crime? 
Just God, why death? Thy pity must have been great 
when with all its good and evil this marvelous and beau- 
tiful world, crying, emerged from Chaos! Since Thou 
■wouldst submit it to the pains of which is replenished 
Thou oughtest not to have permitted it to discern Thee. 
Why lettest Thou our misery see and guess at a God? 
Doubt has brought desolation on the earth. AVe see too 



much or too little. If Thy creature is unworthy to aj>- 
proach Thee, Thou oughtest let nature veil and hide 
Thee. Thy power would have been left to Thee, and wo 
should have felt its blows; but quiet and ignorance would 
have lessened our griefs. 

If our afflictions ar.d pain:5 reach not to Thy 7najesty, 
keep Thy solitary grandeur, shut forever Thy immensity; 
but if our mortal griefs can reaeh to Thee, and from the 
eternal plains, Thou hearest our sighs, break the deep 
vaults which covers creation, lift this world's veil, and 
show thyself a just and good God. Tliou wilt see all over 
this earth an ardent love of faith, and the whole mankind 
will fall down before Thee. The tears which flow from 
men's eyes as a light dew will disappear in heaven. Thou 
shalt hear only Thy praises, and a concert of joy and love 
like that with which the Angels gladden Thy everlasting 
kingdom, and in this supreme hosanna. Thou shalt see 
at the sound of our songs, doubt and blasphemy fly away, 
whilst death itself Avill join its last accents to them. 

A. de Musset. 



143 
XVI. 

THE COAT. 

iO ANGELO iJlCCO-LAl,( Lucca.) 



Thou reproachest me, Francis, and thou sayest that I 
forget my old friends. If, as before, poetry gives sweet 
food to thy beautiful soul, read my coat, au<l see if I can 
forget you, when I keep remembrance even of a very old 
worn-out coat. No, while a drop of blood runs in my 
veins, I would that we remain, " two souls with a single 
thought, two hearts beating in one. " 

TO MY COAT. 

JOKE. 

My poor coat, my sweet friend, it is true, thou art ragg- 
ed, it is true, thou art old, but in happy as in hard times 
I had thee, an inseparable companion, and, remembering 
thee I love thee, nor I cast thee from me. 

Let those who, fond of change, follow the fashion and 
let them admire jny constancy. By experience, 1 have 
learned that, in this century, dress is everything. 

Look at that nobleman, who upon his coat wears sewn 
a silk ribbon? If thou take off the dress, who, by his 
manners would honor him as a knight? Where are his 
grace and amiability? Where is the old time elegant 
bearing? Formerly it was the usage to protect oppressed 
ladies, now one strikes even his own wife. 

Another is angry and raises row if people do not call 
him doctor. But could he be known as such without his 
gown? The ignoble crowd, wouldstthou believe? humbles 
itself, bends, to whom? — to a robe. Like the donkey, who 
was carrying the beautous image of Cytherea, while the 



144 

frightened beast was passing, the people filled with devo- 
tion used to bow. 

Oh, my very dear coat, never did I wear thee out of 
vanity, nor ever for debts wast thou pulled off, for even 
thou art ragged, I have paid for thee, with the honest 
fruit of my sweat, inasmuch as a noble soul is unused to 
sell an object of affection, but he has not the usual luck 
to find some one who pays clothes for him. 

Under the sleeves one may see the threads, but that 
recalls me my glory, because I wore it when I, under the 
influence of poetical fire, was writing the Naso for you, 
my ladies. 

Look, the collar, is already worn out on account of my 
turning here and there, and yet, it brings me no grief nor 
pain, but it is my tender keepsake, because I do remem- 
ber those joyous days in which I felt in love with a 
young girl. 

Often when sitting between mother and daughter, for 
the sake of propriety, using the most deep and subtle 
policy, I w:is convening now wiih the one, now with the 
other. But when speaking to the young one low in her 
ear, the c-uining old lady would say, "What' that? "(with 
her elbow nudging mine,) and I would answer, "Oh, no- 
thing" and address myself to the girl, that everlasting 
turning of my head was for my collar a great misfortune, 
and yet it does not grieve or pain me, it is the tendersst 
of my recollections. 

When I am sitting near to ladies, I cannot act like a 
statue, I am aretino! I like to speak, and I like to look, 
and I like to move as much as I choose, and, if my collar 
must suffer on account of it, cannot be helped, the collar 
will have to be renowned. 

Here where the coat meets near the stomach a button 
is missing. Of ten which were, now there remained nine. 





ALICE DE CHAMBRIER 



145 

your number, daughters of Jupiter. Wanting some money, 
often I put my hands into the pockets, but in vain and 
yet that deficit does not grieve me, but all the more awakens 
the old vein, so that in my mind, I change my pamphlets 
into money. 

Oh, how delightful to be a poet! All subscribe for 
friendship and all pay, how delightful! Then my ragged 
old coat, my ever faithful companion and friend, who 
with me wast in great Rome, and with me when I was 
admitted to the degree of doctor, (so (hat leaving thee I 
should fear to lose half of my knowledge), thou art the sweet 
and only cause (.f my most happy days. Life on account 
of thee is to me dear and gay, since I learned to know 
mankind. 

When thou wert renowned for fashionable style, a- 
midst a vain and gallant world, and hadst the merit of 
being handsome, everybody took off his hat to me. In 
the vestibules wherever I went I used to hear repeated 
''Come in, come in." Great noblemen convened with 
me and servants called me very illustrioJis. I lived dear to the 
ladies, but, alas! Honor, kindness, all were addressed to 
thee! and now that thou no more excitest easy pleasure 
on account of thy shabby shapelessness, at balls, at clubs 
I hear said: " With that coat you cannot pass," and if I 
go to visit any one, he sends words: " Nobody at home. " 
Everybody avoids me, some shrewd ones, fear that I am 
going to ask a loan wherewith to have another made. My 
poor coat thou well seest that honors and kindnesses were 
addressed to thee. Yet to live with thee is dear and joy- 
ful to me, because I learned to know mankind. 

Perish useless luxury, nor let me hear any more fashion 
praised by fanAtics, fatal source of laziness and vexation. 
True happiness lurks amid shabby clothes. 

G Hilda fi^noli. 



146 

XVII. 
THE JEANNETTE'S VICTIMS. 



TO JOAN STOCKTON HOUGH, M. D. 



The other day, in opening a ne^vspaper, my eyes by 
chance fell on the following words: " the jeannette. " 
The Jeannette! and, for a long time, I remained thought- 
fully gazing into the space, and sad at heart. 

My mind, carried far away, with a hasty ramble, had 
already rejoined those men, those sailors lost, feeble, tot- 
tering in the snow amidst the floating ice-bergs. 

These records daily written by your hands at the time 
you saw all hope of help lost, when knowing perfectly 
that safety was impossible, you were obliged to look upon 
your best friends struck down by death, and withdraw 
from you, after having consoled them with a last ray of 
love and prayer. 

You have not expressed in these records all that you 
suffered. Yet neither pain nor the infinite dread of such 
daily sad agony could conquer your courage or shake 
your faith, brave and valiant souls. Honor to you! Honor 
forever! 

Thus all of them yesterday were unknown, but to-day 
are famous; they remained great at that dismal hour, and 
when my heart searches for them in their quiet rest, if 
they appear to me, it is only with the forehead encircled 
by the martyr's wreath. 

Oh, you saw them drawing near to merciless death, and 
yet you have kept an ineffable hope. Grand it was to have 
remained alone in such a horrid place .far from their 
home, from their country, without help and to have believ- 
ed in God without murmuring and without complaining. 



147 

Oh, how great were they! strugglers! heroes! martyrs! 
Let us love the priceless offerings of these victims who 
sacrificed themselves to thy divine cause, light and 

PROGRESS. 

A. de CJiainbrier. 

'^ o r» 



148 
XVIII. 

DANTE. 

TO THE HON. JOHN BEVERLEY ROBIN'^ON 



La coljKi ppguira la parte offensa, 
111 grida come suol. 

DANTE. 

It was evening. Deprived of its magnificence, the sun 
now arrived at the dimmed horizon, was departing silent- 
ly, without strength, like an exiled king, who passes away 
unknown. Upright upon a hill whence Florence could 
be seen, leaning on his sword still unsheathed and bloody, 
a soldier, fierce in face, yet dusty from the battle scarcely 
ended, all of whose companions were flying at random, 
stood, casting on the distant city, a long and painful look. 
A deep sigh heaved his breast, his eye sparkled, and his 
voice made the hill tremble. 

" Vanquished! exiled like a brigand! driven away by 
the fate of the battlefield! without even having the fortune 
to die fighting beneath our walls! Vanquished! From 
valley to valley to drag along my sad life, begging from 
half-hearted friends! — to eat the hard bread of alms until 
my last hour comes! these are the rights I have won! 

" I must fly, then, far from thee, dear and ungrateful 
city — live and suffer far from thee without hope! Of all 
the misfortunes which from this moment will weigh on 
me, the greatest will be never to see thee again! Thou sun, 
who art dying continue thy cours3 and illumine still the 
roof of my ancesiors, and the holy place where under the 
black stone are sleeping in peace my mother and my 
father. Oh, why could I not sleep near them! Thou, 
beloved Beatrice, who scarcely hast touched our world 



149 

while directing thy course toward heaven, in thy great 
glory dost thou still remember thy friend? Vision so 
short and so beautiful! Oh, bright day, what was thy to- 
morrow? Watch over me, radiant, immortal one! Sweet- 
eyed angel, cover me with thy wings! Happy star, point 
me out my way! " 

Dante was silent, and as in the tempest the oak lowers 
the pride of its branches, the exile bent under the burden 
of his misfortunes, lowered his face, and, with tormented 
soul and eyes full of tears, tasted long the bitterness of 
his pains. A noise came to draw him from his thoughts, 
a noise feeble at first, but continually increasing, a terrible 
mixture of saddened bells, of a nation's curse, of songs of 
victors, and of cries of the vanquished. 

This noise was the uproar of the people of Florence. 
Humbled on account of their fears, to feast their victory, 
they asked for vengeance, and without pity dragged to 
the scaffold many prisoners spared by the sword in battle. 

Like a lion awakened by a sudden noise, which with 
flashing eyes rises and pricks up his ears, the soldier 
started at the words which reached him with the echo, 
and coming out from his sad repose for a moment listen- 
ed to the brutal orgies; and then, with his arms extended 
toward his native city, thus addressed her: 

'* Senseless populace! Go on, ye who curse the sacrific- 
ed, and only help the strongest! Join death to thy pleas- 
ure. Mingle blood with the wine of thy feast. Laugh at 
the execution prepared for those who, moved by faith, 
have risked their life for thee! 

Go on with thy work, and make haste. Canst thou in 
thy wisdom, know how many hours are needed to change 
joy into dread, and grief into joy, — how long last so sweet 
a power, — and if the oppressed remain long on their 
knees? 



150 

" Without doubt, puffed up by tbeir good fortune, 
triumphant and full of bitterness, the Neri already say 
'Our reign is sure! ' Thinking this reign an easy task, 
and the league of the BiancJii crushed, they strike our 
remnants, and scoff at us with jest and sarcasm. 

*' Oh, Neri, know how to maintain yourselves kings of 
the present. I have the future, and you, I dare to think, 
will follow me thither. Ungrateful history may leave in 
darkness your great exploits. I, in this terrified world, 
just towards so great a glory, will immortalize you. 

" Pouring infernal light on your venal spirits, I will, 
portray you to future ages, and will discover the niggard- 
liness, the jealousy, the treachery, the hypocrisy cf your 
hearts, and upon your soiled names will throw torrents 
of terrible verses. Oh, inconstant and deceitful peojde! 
I feel the day of vengeance coming! Tremble! I am 
the supreme wrath, bend thyself under its course, and 
may misfortune break thy pride; every hour will bring a 
new pain, and thou shalt torture thyself as a man alive 
in a tomb." 

The night had come. A blast of tempest roared pass- 
ing through the air; the dark heaven was reddening, the 
arm of the sad prophet seemed to threaten the perverse, 
and the inspired forehead of the divine poet was sorround- 
ed by lightning. 

From nation to nation, from place to place, untamed, 
uneasy, full of hatred and love, the great outlaw wandered 
twenty years, far from his birth-place, always dreaming 
of his return. 

Until the last hour he cherished the hope of seeing this 
happy day. Death only took pity on his long sufferings; 
and the old Ghibelin never more saw Florence, — which 
has not even his remains within her walls. 

A. Richard. 



ir>i 
XIX. 

PHANTOMS. 

TO WM. OLDRIGHT, M. A., M. D. 



I. 

How many beautiful maidens have I seen die! It is 
destiny. A prey is necessary to death. As the grass 
must fall under the scythe, so, in therball, the quadrille 
must tramp rosy youth under its steps. The fountain by 
irrigating the valleys must diminish its waters. The 
lightning must shiae, but only for a moment. Envious 
April with its frosts must blight the apple tree, too proud 
of its odoriferous flowers, white as tlie snow of the spring. 
Yes, such is life. The darkness of the night follows the 
daylight, and to all will come the eternal awaking in 
heaven, or the aby.^s. A covetous crowd sits at the great 
banquet, but many of the guests leave their places emptv 
and depart before the end. 

II. 

How many have I seen die! One was fair and bloom- 
ing. Another seemed enraptured in a celestial music. 
Another with her arms uphold her bended head — and as 
the bird, which in taking flight, breaks the branch on 
which it rests — her soul had broken her bodv. 

One pale, lost, oppressed by sad delirium, prontmnced 
in a low voice a name forgotten by all, another dies away 
as a sound of a lyre, and another, expiring has on her 
lips the sweet smile of a young angel, returning tohea\^en. 
All frail flowers — dead as soon as born — halcyons drown- 
ed with their floating nests; doves sent from heaven to 
earth, who, crowned with grace, youth and love, numbered 
their years by the springs. 



152 

Dead! What? Already lying under the cold stone! 
Ho many charming beings deprived of voice and life! So 
many lights extinguished! So many flowers faded away! 
Oh, let me trample the dried leaves and lose myself in the 
depth of the woods. 

Lovely phantoms! It is there in the woods, when in 
the dark I am thinking, it is there that by turn they come 
to listen and to speak to me. The twilight at the same 
time, shows and veils their number, but across the 
branches I perceive their glitterirg eyes. 

My soul is a true sister to these beautiful shadows. 
For me and for them life and death have no laws — some- 
times I help their steps — sometimes I take their wings. 
Ineffable vision in which I am dead and they alive like 
me. They lend their forms to my thoughts. I see, oh, 
yes I see them. They beckon me to come, and then, 
hand in hand, they dance around a grave, and, by degree 
disappearing softly, draw away, and then after I think and 
I remember. 

III. 

One especially — an angel — a young Spanish girl! 
White hands, her breast swelled by innocent sighs. Black 
eyes in which shone the looks of a Creole; and that in- 
definite charm, that fresh halo, which generally crowns a 
head of fifteen. 

She died not for love. No, love had not yet brought 
her joy nor sorrow; nothing yet had made her rebel 
heart beat, and, when everyone, in looking at her, could 
not repress the words, *' How beautiful she is! " none had 
yet uttered secretly the word of love. Poor girl! She 
loved dance too much — it was that which killed her. The 
charming ball! The ball full of delight! Her ashes still 
tremble with a gentle movement, if, by chance, in a fair 



153 

night a, white cloud dances around the crescent of the sky. 

She loved dance too much! At the approach of a festi- 
val — three days before, she was continually thinking 
and dreaming of it — and for three nights ladies, music, 
dancers never tired, troubled her mind in her sleep, and 
laughed, and shouted at her pillows. 

Jewels, necklaces, silk girdles of waving reflections, 
tissues lighter than bee's wings, festoons and ribbons to 
buy a palace, all those things occupied her fancy. 

Once the festival begun — full of gladness she comes 
with her joyful sisters, furling and unfurling the fan in 
her fingers, — then sits amongst the silk dresses, and her 
heart bursts into glad strains with the many-voiced 
orchestra. AVhat a true delight was it to look at her when 
she was dancing! Her garment tossed its blue spangles; 
her great dark eyes sparkled under the black mantle like 
a pair of stars under a dark cloud. She was all dance and 
laughter and mad joy. Child! 

We admire her in our sad leisure moments, sad, because 
never at the ball our hearts were open, and in these balls, 
as the dust flies on the silk dress, weariness is mixed 
with pleasure. She, instead, carried by the waltzes or the 
polkas, was going up and down, hardly breathing, excit- 
ing herself with the sound of the renowned flute, with 
the flowers, with the golden candlesticks, with the attract- 
ive feast, with the music of the voices, with the noise of 

the steps. 

What happiness for her to move, lost in the crowd, to 
fee] her own senses multiply in the dance, so as not to be 
able to know is she were being conveyed by a cloud, or 
flying leaving the earth, or treading upon a waving sea. 

At the approach of the dawn, she was obliged to depart, 
and to wait on the treshold till ths silken mantle was 
thrown over her shoulders. Only then, this innocent 



dancer, cliillecl, felt the morning breeze play over her 
bare neck. 

Sad morrow those following a ball! Farewell dances 
and dresses, and child-like laughter. In her, the obsti- 
nate cough succeeded the songs; the fever with its hectic 
color followed the rosy and lively delights, and the bright 
eyes were changed into lack lustre eyes. 

IV. 

She is dead! Fifteen years old, beautiful, happy, ador- 
ed! Dead corning out from a ball which immersed all 
of us in mourning, dead, alas! And death, with chilly 
hands wrested her yet dressed from the arms of a mother 
mad with anguish, to lay her to sleep in the grave. 

To dance at other balls she was ready, death was in 
haste to take possession of such a beautiful body, and the 
same ephemeral roses which had crowned her head and 
which blossomed yesterday at a feast faded in a tomb. 

V. 

The unhappy mother, ignorant of her fate, had placed 
so deep love on this frail stalk; to have watched her suf- 
fering babyhood so long, and to have wasted so many 
nights in lulling her when she cried, a tiny baby in her 
cradle. To what purpose? Now the girl sleeps under the 
coffin lid and, if in the grave where w^e have left her, some 
beautiful winter's night a festival of the dead should 
awaken her cold corpse, a ghost, with dreadful smile, in- 
stead of his mother, will preside at her toilette, and will 
tell her, "Now is the time," and with a kiss freezing her 
blue lips, will pass through her hair the knotted fingers, 
of his skeleton hand, and will lead her trembling to the 
ethereal chorus, flitting in darkness, and, at the same time 
on the gray horizon the moon will shine pale and full 



and the rainbow of the night will color, with an opal re- 
flection, the silver clouds. 

VL 

Young maidens who are invited by the gay ball, with 
its seductive pleasures, think of this Spanish girl. She 
was gay, and with a merry hand was gathering the roses 
of life, pleasure, youth and love! Poor girl! Hurried 
from feast to feast she was sorting the colors of this 
beautiful nosegay. How soon all vanished! Like Ophe- 
lia, carried away by the river, she died gathering flowers. 

V. Hugo. 



156 
XX. 

DAVID. 

TO MISS SUSIE. E. WITHFORD, (CHICAGO, ILL.) 



To contend with tha giant Goliath, David had only his 
sling, but at the bottom of his boyish heart he had also a 
strong faith. He was perfectly aware that in order to save 
Israel, God would figth for him. 

Calm and easy in mind, he set forth against the power- 
ful Philistine who, with haughty and insolent look, smil- 
ed at his youthful appearance, at the same time scoffing 
at the Lord who had chosen David to save his people. 

But the boy whom God directed, with a steady hand 
and by a simple throw, inflicted on the colossus a deadly 
wound, and thus the Lord was pleased to deliver Israel. 

In the same manner as David, Thou, oh, Lord, callest 
us to great battles. To succeed in them in a way credit- 
able to Thee, make us faithful as David, and then every 
one would perceive that the Lord is with us as He was 
with Israel. 

And if evil sorrounds us, and if it become stronger than 
ourselves, then, kneeling, we shall implore Thee, Who 
rejectest none, and then in answer to our prayers. Thou 
shalt fight for us. 

A. de Chambrier. 



157 

XXI. 

THE TWIN SPIRITS. 



TO MISS NORA HILLARY, TEACHER OF MUSIC. 



I. 

The sun was near the end of his journey, — the air was 

filled with mystery, — the violets send their odor to God 

the murmur of the stream was more lively, — all creation 
seemed to repeat the words of love, and my heart was 
seized by a pious feeling which sweetly suggested prayer. 

Prostrating myself before the rustic altar of the queen 
of heaven, a divine pity moved my soul and I wept and 
prayed. 

11. 

Whilst to the throne of the Almighty, Jike a cloud of 
incense, joined to the sublime austere voice of the organ 
rose the prayer of the worshippers so dear to Him, sud- 
denly I heard a sweet, strong, harmonious voice which 
troubled my heart and forced me to weep. 

Raising my eyes there appeared before me a young 
orator, beautiful and divine in appearance who struck 
my heart. 

III. 

For many and many days already the fair young man 
had turned and returned around my house, looked at me 
and smiled, and every day I saw his sweet image; blush- 
ing, I too had answered his salute, — and each time he 
came I lost my peace. 

God grant that he may understand me as I understand 
him! And if he understands me and will give me his 
heart I will adore him with an intense love. 



ir)8 

IV. 

He loves, yes,- he loves me! Oh, celestial delight! — In- 
effable joy! — Supreme gladness! No, this, is not a dream, 
he has told me and his words are words of divine consent. 
Yes, my beloved, I will love thee, — to tliee I will open the 
most hidden recesses of my heart, — entirely thine will be 
this my living soul. Sweetly, sweetly a breath of love 
slighty touches my face. He has looked at me and placed 
on my finger a ring, — a glittering circle of gold. 

V. 

See, see how the torches shine! How beautiful is the 
altar festally adorned! How many garlands! How much 
incense, and how many lights! Oh, what a. solemn funct- 
ion is this one! How bright a day, and how the lieaven 
smiles! I will adorn my head with the nuptial crown. 
I will appear beautiful under my veil. Already the 
harmonious trumpet tunes joyful songs. Oh, my faithful 
one! dost thou not hear the people's shouts. — "Hurrah! 
for the bride! " 

VI. 

" Thou art married. " So said the priest, — the old man, 
thou knowest, who loves me so much! Art thou then 
mine? Wilt thou be always at my side? Is then ac- 
complished the hope of my heart? But tell me, dear, why 
so sadly lookest thou at the ground, and sighest? What 
thought comes to abate the course of our joy? Thinkest 
thou perhaps of thy mother whom thou hast left alone? 
We will go to her, but do not weep any more. 

YII. 

Three days are passed, and he has not returned! Al- 
ready three days, three eternal days! and I am dying! My 



159 

treasure has told me nothing. At dawn he kissed me 
and quickly went away. Has he been to console his 
mother? But then he ought to return without delay! 
Pray, bright stars, bring him back to me. WiUiout my 
beloved I am failing, and I will preserve alive for him the 
only prifie of my life, with whom I fell in so great a love. 

VIII. 

Alas! What are these melancholy voices, — this sad 
sound of bells, — this grief which invades all the passers 
by? What wants this yet distant crowd? Somebody is 
dead. . . .and is accompanied to his home by weeping faces! 
Alas! is it true this my horrid vision? No, it cannot be! 
Eternal God, Thou art not an unjust punisher! My mind 
is raving, and my thoughts are food for my sorrows. 

IX. 

Yes, my love is dead! The colored cheeks are now 
pale and the heart is silent. The refulgent pujjil which 
before used to shine with divine ardor is now closed. God, 
why hast now taken him, when scarcely thou hadst grant- 
ed me his sublime love? Like a little flower, which in 
the winter appears waving, and soon after is leafless and 
dies, thou, my sweet-heart, hast passed away. 

X. 

I am wretched, sad and alone, because they have taken 
away my treasure, burying him under the green sod not 
far from thy altar, Virgin Mary. They have laid on the 
cofhn a few flowers, singing pious songs. Prepare for me 
in the same place the nuptial bed. I come to thee, my 
beloved, only comfort of my heart. United we shall 
spread our wings on the celestial shore,- the everlasting love. 

At the last tollijig of the sad bell, well known to the 



160 

village people, when the night has come, and the honest 
prayer of the peasant singing to the Virgin, ascends to 
the spheres, when in the heaven raises the placid moon, 
when the breezes become milder, and all around the uni- 
verse is silent, adoring the Creator, when, on the branches 
the feathered birds tranquilly hide their harmonious 
throaths in their winged arms, and in the sky the most 
distant worlds reappear, amidst the light vapors of the 
churchyard, a flame towers alone and trembling for a 
while, finally rests and waits. 

Not long after, a sad and harmonious song is heard, and 
in the meanwhile one can see alike flame coming toward 
the first, and both mingled in one embrace, sweetly diss- 
appear, like twins, destined to the same fate, who felt 
intense joy in meeting each other. 

The firm belief of the people is that the apparition is 
the souls of the two unhappy ones who prematurely died 
in such great grief, and, on account of this, the believer 
pained for so great amisfortune, bows, and weeping, says 

AVE MARIA. 

C. A. Morpurgo. 



DOTTOR T. ROSSINI, 

MEIDICO-OHIRURGO. 

Uffleio; 603 WAMkHINOTON »TKX:£T. 



Ore Hi Ufficio : Dalle ore 8, alle 9 a. m. Dalle ore 2 alle 4 p. m. 

A. PRIANI QUILICI, 

Levatriee. 

liAIJBBATA nell'auno 187S dalla Ra UIVIVERSITA' di 

6E1VOTA. 

Consultazioni suUe Malattie Uterine, 

GURB5 SPEOIALI 

deU'Itterizia e Febbri Terzane 

DomiCiliO 732, VIA VALLEJO, fra Powelle Stockton, 

Ore d'Ufficio dalle 1.30, alle 3 p. in. 




N. 1600 VIA STOCKTON, opposta alia Sala Bersaglieri. 



aboratorio in preparazioni Chimiche. Specialta' Italiane, Americane 

« Francesi. Unico preparatore dell' Elixir di Wiqgers per tutte 

le affezioni catarrali. Sciroppo di Eucaliptus Estratto 

composto di Salsapariglia. 



:p.a.oXjO ode "VECcia:!, 

CQedieo«Chirat»go, 

610 Maeket Street, San Francisco, Cal. 

PACIFIC CONSOLIDATED PASTE CO. 



V. RAVENNA & GO., 

Manufacturers of 

MACCHERONI, * VERMICELLI, * FARINA, ^ ETC. 

421-423 Batteey St. xbab Washikgton. 



Dr. c. barsotti, 

Specialista per le malattie delle donne 
EX-CHIRUBGO dei Begri Ospedali di Lucca 

Ufficio, 607 VIA Washington. Residenza, 911 Broadway. 

Dalle ore 8 aUe 9 ant ; dalle 2 alle 4 pom. Dalle 12 m. alle 2 pom. 

DR. VINCENZO VACCARl, 

MEDICO-CHIRURGO, 

LAUREATO DELL'UNIVERSITA' DI GENOVA. 

611 Via Washington. Officio del Dr. PESCIA. 

Ore d' Ufficio, dalle alle 9 a. m. Dalle 12 alle 2 p. m. e dalle 7 alle 8 p. m. 

DOTTORE G. PESCIA, 

mEDlCO-CHlR^^GO, 

Societa' Italiana di Mutua Beneficenza, Compagnia Bersaglieri e 
Garibaldi ra, Austrian Benevolent Society, Societa' Cacciatori delle Alpi, 
Societa' Operaia e Societa' dei Pescatori. 

OFFICIO E DOMICILIO, 611 VIA WASHINGTON. 

611 \irASHINGTON STREET, NEAR MONTGOMERY 
The Tlieatrical Shoemaker of Sin Francisco, made 15 pairs of Genuine 
Morocco Leather Shoes for Mulambark's Tourage Arabs when playing 
in this city. They use them in their act, and were so well pleased with 
thern that they ordered another all-around. Just as we do when we 
like something. P\rdini is an Artist in Shoes. A large portion of the 
s'age shoes made here are turned out at his establishment. 



J. F. FUGAZI E. G. PALMIERI 




-SJ, F. FUGAZI A. 00., -f- 

No. 5 Montgomery Ave. San Francisco, Cal. 
Pacific Coast Agency of the COMPAGNIE GENERAL TRANSATLANTIQUE 
Direct fVom. New York, Havre and. Ret\arn. 

AliSO AGENTS OF THE 

UNION PACIFIC, CHICAGO. ROCK ISLAND and PENNSYLVANIA EAILEOADS 

Drafts on Great Britain, France, Italy, Switzerland, Germany and Austria. 

Tickets by any Steamship Iviae to and from all points of Europe at Lowest Rates 




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